Killing Two Birds
by dharmamonkey
Summary: After six months in Maluku, Brennan is summoned to Afghanistan to identify remains from a military helicopter crash and assist Sgt. Maj. Booth in investigating the cause of it. AU obviously.
1. The Phone Call

**Killing Two Birds**

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><p><strong>By:<strong> dharmamonkey  
><strong>Rated:<strong> M  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> _Hart Hanson owns Bones. But people like me who play in his sandbox give you all those delicious little moments that Hart and friends leave out. In this case, AU do-overs for that gap between Seasons 5 and 6 that wrought so much havoc for our heroes. That's why you read fanfic._

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><p><strong>Chapter 1: The Phone Call<strong>

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><p>"Day 197," Daisy grumbled as if dictating her dig journal to a non-existent secretary. "Found nothing." She adjusted her bag on her shoulder as she trudged back to their vehicle, watching for vines and exposed tree roots as she made her way along the path.<p>

"Well," Brennan replied with a shrug, trying to sound optimistic for her protégé's benefit. "Three months ago we found an onyx bead."

"No offense, Dr. Brennan," the younger woman replied, "but what we're looking for is evidence of early man, not jewelry that's barely two hundred years old."

Brennan sighed, knowing full well her graduate intern was absolutely right. In a way, she felt bad for Daisy, who came to Indonesia's Maluku Islands six months earlier bursting with excitement that she would be part of a team that would finally find concrete evidence of interspecies mating among _Homo floriensis _and early _Homo sapiens_. Brennan, on the other hand, knew now what she really knew all along—that she came to Maluku, not to find a _H. floriensis/H. sapiens _hybrid skeleton, but rather to get away from the awkward mess she had made of her life back home—and that the whole effort was a mistake. A shockingly huge, incomprehensively foolish mistake.

Brennan jumped at hearing Daisy's scream, then looked over and saw a large albino python in the back of the thirty year-old Toyota Land Cruiser. She took a deep breath and reached into the truck, carefully lifting the snake out and carrying it a few feet into the jungle canopy before releasing it.

"I find it interesting," she observed, "that I'm only afraid of snakes when Booth is around to be jumped upon."

Daisy cocked an eyebrow at the remark and tried to conceal her smirk as Brennan walked back to the truck, but said nothing. Her mentor casually tossed her well-worn waxed canvas messenger bag in the cargo bed behind the seats and stood next to the tailgate, speaking not a word though Daisy could tell her mind was busy with thought. After a few long moments, an electronic ring pierced the silence between them.

"Brennan," she said as she answered the satellite phone. Daisy stood by the passenger side door and listened to her mentor's side of the conversation, unable to decipher the faint squeaks on the other end of the line.

"Yes..."

"Where?" Brennan's eyes narrowed and she looked up and away into the distance as if trying to visualize a map in the glittering green forest canopy above them.

"Are you sure?" Daisy frowned as she saw Brennan's face pale at hearing whatever the speaker had just said. She pursed her lips and felt her heart break a little for her mentor, who she felt closer to after all the long months they had spent together—as close, in any case, as it was possible to get to Brennan, though Daisy wondered if there was a part of the anthropologist that was accessible only to her FBI partner, Special Agent (now Sergeant Major) Booth.

"Yes, of course..." Brennan nodded at the speaker's words and glanced up, her eyes briefly meeting Daisy's before quickly looking away again.

"Can you tell me if a Sergeant Major Seeley Booth was involved?" she asked, her voice audibly affected as her breath caught in her throat.

"What do you mean you can't tell me?" she snapped, her fingers curling tighter around the scuffed plastic body of the phone as she spoke.

Daisy continued to listen but turned away, leaning over the side of the Land Cruiser's cargo bed to fuss with a bag of surveying tools, trying her best to look as if she were not listening, knowing full well that Brennan knew she was.

"But I have the highest-possible security clearance..."

Brennan indeed had a very high security clearance—perhaps not _the _highest possible, but certainly very high, almost improbably high for a civilian not involved in defense contracting work—but it was clear from her side of the conversation that the person on the other end of the line was neither impressed nor persuaded by that fact.

"So you're not denying he was there, but—"

Daisy could not help but smile at hearing Brennan turn the tables on the caller, the same way she had done countless times with her students, catching them in a logical trap during one of her Socratic-style oral quizzes. She had been on the receiving end of that technique enough times to recognize when Brennan was about to spring her trap.

"Is he alright?"

For several moments Brennan fell silent, during which the squeaky voice on the other end of the phone seemed to fall silent, too.

"I don't understand why you can't tell me—" she said, her jaw tensing as her voice tightened, climbing a half-octave in pitch.

Another long moment of silence passed.

"Yes, I understand…"

Brennan finally looked up at her graduate student and their eyes locked as the caller continued to speak. Daisy smiled and shrugged, not knowing in that moment how to communicate concern or sympathy to a woman who would have rebuffed the typical physical gestures of support.

"It could take me a couple of days," Brennan said, her tone of voice suddenly more subdued as she fussed mindlessly with the pocket of her cargo shorts. The caller squeaked on, and her brows furrowed more and more deeply as the seconds passed.

"Yes, I understand," she whispered, lifting her gaze to once more meet Daisy's.

"Alright—"

"Yes, I'll leave right away," she promised, then hung up the phone, staring at the device for a minute or two before shaking her head vaguely.

"Something happened to Agent Booth, didn't it?" Daisy asked, her voice soft and even.

"I don't know," Brennan admitted. "But I have to leave Maluku right away." She looked away and sighed deeply, then walked over to the driver's side door of the Land Cruiser. "The U.S. Army has asked me to come to Afghanistan. There's been some kind of incident involving two U.S. military helicopters in Helmand Province and they need a forensic anthropologist to assist them in identifying the remains of American servicemen."

Brennan opened the driver's side door and climbed into the seat but hesitated before turning the key in the ignition. She felt her heart pounding in her chest and she knew that most of the color had drained from her face.

"Oh God," Daisy whispered, wishing immediately that she could have swallowed the words the moment they left her lips. She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them again and said, "Go to Agent Booth, Dr. Brennan. It's okay. I'll stay here. I can handle things here. Go take care of Booth."

Brennan stared at her young graduate student for a minute then nodded.

"I will."

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><p><em>Yes, I know... <em>::**smirk**:: _Evil cliffhanger. _

_My erstwhile collaborator _Lesera128_ has taught me well. Perhaps too well._

_So that's how it begins. But, if you know anything about me by now, it's that I love Booth (right?), and the only thing I love more than Booth is bringing him and Brennan together. So worry not, my friends._

_You want to know what happens next? I'd love to tell you, and in fact I _really _want to tell you, but in order to cross the dharmamonkey's River Styx, you do have to pay the boatman. In this case, pieces of silver are not required (and you don't have to be dead—extra bonus!)._

_So, want more? You simply have to tell me what you think of this chapter and the concept so far._

_Press that little review button and do your thing._

_Yes, that one—right down there. That's the one._

_Thanks!_


	2. The Road to Bagram

**Killing Two Birds**

* * *

><p><strong>By:<strong> dharmamonkey  
><strong>Rated:<strong> M  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> _Hart Hanson owns Bones. But people like me who play in his sandbox give you all those delicious little moments that Hart and friends leave out. In this case, AU do-overs for that gap between Seasons 5 and 6 that wrought so much havoc for our heroes. That's why you read fanfic._

* * *

><p><strong><span>AN:** _ I have been absolutely knocked sideways by the overwhelming and thoroughly positive reaction I've received thus far to this piece. Thanks to everyone who read Chapter 1, and extra special thanks to those who paid the boatman and left a review. I can't tell you how grateful I am to know that what I write has value to the people who read it. So thank you, and I hope you like the direction I'm taking this piece. So, without further ado, let's rejoin the action._

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><p><strong>Chapter 2: The Road to Bagram<strong>

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><p>Brennan reclined her first-class seat and took a long, deep breath in an attempt to relax the anxious twitch that had gripped her from the moment she answered the call on her satellite phone two days earlier.<p>

"_Dr. Temperance Brennan?" the flat, distant voice had asked._

"_Yes…"_

"_This is Lieutenant General Heath from United States Central Command in Tampa, Florida. I am calling to request your assistance in a matter of great urgency. There has been a catastrophic accident involving two U.S. Army helicopters—"_

"_Where?"_

"_In southwestern Afghanistan, in Helmand Province. Beyond that I am not at liberty to say as you are speaking to me on an unsecure line." He paused, a static-filled silence hanging between them for several seconds. "I can tell you that a significant number of U.S. military personnel have been killed and, in light of the nature of the accident, their remains cannot be identified using the techniques available to the U.S. military. We require assistance, Dr. Brennan, that only you can provide, and we would therefore ask that you come to Afghanistan as soon as possible to assist."_

"_Are you sure?" _

_Lt. Gen. Heath paused again, momentarily puzzled about which part of his statement Brennan was asking for confirmation of, then he spoke again._

"_Yes, Dr. Brennan," he answered vaguely. "I recognize this request comes at a rather awkward time considering your present location, but we can assist you in making flight arrangements if you can get yourself back to Jakarta. Will that be possible?"_

"_Yes, of course," she answered quickly._

"_We are very glad to hear that, Dr. Brennan," the general replied earnestly. "You come highly recommended by some of my colleagues here who worked with you a few years ago when you assisted with the identification of some remains in Iraq. Although I am not familiar with the specifics of your work, I daresay this assignment will be a challenge, given the number of persons involved and the—well, how can I put this delicately?—the condition of the remains after they were recovered from the wreckage of the aircraft. Of course, you recognize that this assignment is highly sensitive. The aircraft involved were part of a Special Operations Command aviation unit, and many of the personnel involved in the incident are members of the Army Special Forces, so we would of course remind you to exercise the highest possible level of discretion as you make your way through Indonesian and other customs agencies when describing the purpose of your travels."_

"_Can you tell me if a Sergeant Major Seeley Booth was involved?"_

"_No, Dr. Brennan, I cannot," the general answered without hesitation. "I am not able to disclose to you the identities of any of the personnel presumed involved in this incident, the units they were in or the nature of the operations they were engaged in when it occurred. I am sure you understand."_

"_What do you mean you can't tell me?"_

"_The mission these soldiers were engaged in and their very identities are highly classified. I cannot provide you that information at this time."_

"_But I have the highest-possible security clearance," she replied, the pitch of her voice rising as the conversation went on._

"_That's not how this works, Dr. Brennan," he said, some of the formality in his tone falling away as his frustration mounted._

"_So you're not denying he was there, but—" she pressed him, allowing her voice to trail off a little._

"_I'm sorry, Dr. Brennan," Lt. Gen. Heath said, clearing his throat. "You know the protocol."_

"_Is he alright?"_

"_Dr. Brennan," the general said, a tone of warning in his voice. "Look—"_

"_I don't understand why you can't tell me—"_

_For several moments, Lt. Gen. Heath said nothing. "So, you indicated you needed a couple of days to get here. Do you think you can get to Jakarta in time to make a one o'clock flight to Lahore tomorrow afternoon? Because it's imperative that we get someone here to look at these remains as soon as possible, before the further passage of time compromises them in any way or—" He cleared his throat again. "We have twenty-odd families that are going to need to be told what happened to their loved ones. I, we, need your help so we can give them their loved ones' remains to bury. Without you , we cannot do that."_

"_Yes," she whispered. "I understand."_

"Can I get you anything, ma'am?" the Singapore Airlines flight attendant asked with a sweet, obsequious smile.

Brennan hesitated, sighed and replied, "Yes—a glass of the Brancott Estate Pinot Grigio, please."

"Certainly, ma'am," the young woman said as she walked away.

"Dammit," Brennan muttered under her breath as she rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. When the flight attendant returned with her wine, she sipped it at first, then finished the glass greedily. When the young Malaysian Chinese stewardess offered her a second glass, she accepted it without hesitation. An hour later, after a third glass of the crisp, dry wine, Brennan drifted off to sleep.

_"I'm the gambler," he told her. "I believe in giving this a chance."_

_She stared at him, her heart pounding as she waited for the words she knew were hanging on his lips. At that moment, her stomach flipped and her breath caught in her throat as she battled conflicting waves of dread and hope._

_"Look," he said to her. "I wanna give this a shot."_

_"You mean us?" she asked, her voice small and wavering._

_He nodded._

_"No," she said, her pitch rising with each word. "The FBI won't let us work together as a couple—"_

_"Don't do that," he said, his words catching in his throat as his eyebrows floated expectantly over his warm, expressive brown eyes. "That is no reason why we—"_

_His voice trailed off as if he could no longer find the words to express how he felt at that moment. So he kissed her. He leaned in close to her and kissed her hard, covering her lips with his. She couldn't hear the sound of his kiss for the roaring of blood in her ears, and her top lip quivered as he held it gently between his. A part of her wanted to part her lips, to open her mouth to him and feel him, to taste him again. But another part of her won out, and the light quivering of her top lip between his stilled. She hesitated, then her lips moved again, just for a moment, before she pressed her hands against his chest and pushed him away._

_"No, no," she cried, her heart clenched in fear and anguish._

_"Why?" he asked, his mouth hanging open in confused disappointment. "Why?"_

_Her eyes glistened with tears. "You—you thought you were protecting me," she said in a broken voice, "but you're the one who needs protecting."_

_"Protecting from what?" he asked, tears welling up in his eyes._

_"From me!" she said, a tear falling from her eye, smudging her eyeliner and dribbling down her cheek. "I—I don't have your kind of open heart," she said._

_"Just give it a chance," he begged her, his normally strong, resolute voice cracking. "That's all I'm asking," he said pleadingly._

_"No," she insisted, her voice uneven and wracked with the tears that began to fall from her eyes. "You said it yourself; the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different outcome."_

_"Well, then let's go for a different outcome here, alright?" He held her upper arms in his hands, gently but firmly enough that the pads of his fingertips dug into her flesh as she stiffened under them. "Let's just - hear me out, alright? You know when you talk to older couples who, you know, have been in love for thirty or forty or fifty years, alright, it's always the guy who says 'I knew.'"_

_She looked at him, another tear dropping onto her cheek. She wanted to say yes, so much so she felt as if she could scream, but another part of her held her back, dragging her down as if weighed down by a heavy block of solid cast iron. She felt as if her legs were fused to the plaza beneath her feet, and she was unable to move, either forward or backward. She wanted to run, but she would not move her feet. All she could do was listen to him._

_"I knew," he said. "Right from the beginning."_

"_Your evidence is anecdotal," she said, twisting in place, frustrated by her inability to move._

"_I'm that guy," he said, the sharply-hewn features of his face suddenly seeming drawn, and she noticed the dark circles under his eyes. "Bones, I'm that guy. I know."_

"_I—I am not a gambler," she said. She felt a sharp, pulling sensation burn along the backs of her calves which quickly spread to her thighs and hamstrings, tugging her down. "I'm a scientist. I can't change. I don't know how." _

_The hard stone of the plaza suddenly felt softer beneath her feet. "I don't know how," she said again. She felt herself sinking into a matrix, which seem at first like quicksand as it swallowed up her feet and then her ankles, but then, glancing down, she saw it took on a more liquid appearance, and she felt the liquid stone rising above her knees, lapping at her thighs as it tugged her downwards and pulled her sideways like a rip current._

"_I don't know how…"_

"Ma'am—"

Brennan's eyes snapped open with a start. "Wha—?"

"Ma'am," the young woman said, leaning over her with a soft smile. "You will need to put your seat up and lower your footrest, please. We are about to land in Lahore."

"Alright," Brennan said with a shrug, pressing the button on the armrest and bringing her seat to a vertical position.

She rubbed her eyes again, trying to clear them of the blurriness that had fallen over them since departing Jakarta hours earlier. Shaking her head, she took several deep breaths and tried to banish the sensation of heaviness that seemed to cling to her for reasons she did not entirely comprehend. She needed to clear her mind, knowing that she had to get through customs, catch a connecting Pakistan International Airways flight to Islamabad, and then yet another flight to Kabul, where she would pick up a U.S. military charter to Bagram Air Base, where the victims of the Helmand helicopter crash had been transferred.

She felt her mouth go dry as a wave of dread washed over her.

_Please, Booth,_ she said to herself. _Please be alright._

* * *

><p>"Dr. Brennan?"<p>

She stepped onto the tarmac and looked up to find two men in desert fatigues standing before her. One, a man in his mid-forties with a severe high and tight haircut, wore a green beret with a colonel's eagle insignia. The other man, perhaps in his early fifties, wore a lieutenant colonel's oak leaf insignia on his collar and a black beret with a cross in the middle of the flash, which Brennan knew meant he was a chaplain. At seeing the cross on the chaplain's beret, her heart sank and she tightened her grip on her duffel bag.

"Please, allow me," the chaplain said with a friendly smile, holding his hand out to take her bags.

"No," she said firmly. "It's not necessary. I can carry my own bags, thank you."

The colonel shot the chaplain a narrowed-eyed look and turned to Brennan. "Thank you for coming on such short notice," he said to her, reaching for the bag she held in her left hand. "Please," he said. Her jaw tightened, but with a quiet sigh she handed him her heavy waxed canvas duffel.

"Colonel," she said firmly. "I asked your colleague, Lieutenant General Heath at CENTCOM, if he knew the status of a Sergeant Major Seeley Booth, but he indicated that he could not disclose this to me due to the insecure nature of the telephone connection we had at the time." She leveled a stare at him. "Since there is no issue of security now that I have arrived at a U.S. military installation, I expect there is no reason you cannot tell me how he is."

The colonel once more glanced at his companion, whose lips twitched sympathetically before he shrugged at the more senior officer. "I'm afraid, Dr. Brennan, I, too, am unable to provide you that information."

"What?" she snapped. "Why not? Why the hell not?"

"Dr. Brennan," the chaplain said, his voice low and even as the syllables fell deliberately from his tongue. "Security protocol requires the colonel to—"

"This is complete and unmitigated horseshit," she shouted, pointing at the colonel and shaking a pointed finger in his face, just inches from his nose. "You people call me out of the blue and I travel nearly four thousand miles in less than two days to help _you_, and all I want to know is the status of my friend Sergeant Major Booth, and you can't do me the courtesy of telling me if he's alive or dead?" Brennan felt her nostrils flaring in anger, her hot breath streaming onto her upturned upper lip. She adjusted her messenger bag on her shoulder with an angry huff and muttered, quietly but loudly enough to be heard, "This is bullshit—complete and utter bullshit."

"Dr. Brennan," the colonel said, his voice breaking slightly as he registered surprise at how this civilian woman was not in any way intimidated despite standing in the middle of a tarmac in the middle of a huge military installation tucked away in one of the world's most dangerous countries. "Until CENTCOM and the Pentagon confirm the status of your security clearance, I am unable to—"

Brennan snorted. "You know what?" she sneered. "You've got human remains? Show me the damn human remains, alright? Because if I hear one more military official give me a canned litany about verifying the status of my security clearance, I think I may become physically violent." She looked at the chaplain and smirked. "And all that would do would delay my ability to examine the remains, confirm identity so you can notify next of kin and deliver the remains to these men's families. So let's cut the crap, colonel—take me to the remains."

The chaplain's mouth fell open with surprise as the colonel cocked his head and shrugged. "As you wish, Dr. Brennan," he said.

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><p>The colonel escorted Brennan to an aircraft hangar on the far side of Bagram Air Base. The interior of the hangar had been divided into two discrete areas, one occupied by a U.S. Army Quartermaster Corps Mortuary Affairs unit, whose space was filled with coffins and other mortuary materials and equipment. A smaller portion of the hangar, along the opposite side, was the kind of makeshift morgue that Brennan had seen many times before. Twenty stainless steel tables were laid out end-to-end in two rows, and on top of each of them had been laid a large, zipped-up black vinyl body bag. Along the wall were another two stainless steel tables, a wheeled gurney and a pair of steel cabinets.<p>

The colonel watched her survey the area as they approached the morgue. "You should find all of your basic equipment has been provided for," he said. "I have a senior non-commissioned officer who will be assigned to support your efforts, so if you require any materials or equipment which we have not already provided you, let him know and he will make arrangements to obtain those items for you. CENTCOM and the Pentagon, as well as the Third Special Forces Group, have made the identification of these men's remains the highest priority, so if you need something else to carry out this task, just let the assigned NCO know, and he will make sure you get what you need."

Brennan turned from her visual survey to meet the colonel's eyes. "Where is this man?" she asked. "Must I wait for him to begin?" she said as she approached the first of the body bags. "Or can I just get started? After all, it's not as if I haven't done this before."

The colonel narrowed his eyes and glanced at his watch. "The sergeant should be along any moment," he said. "I would recommend you begin by inventorying the equipment we have provided so that when the sergeant arrives, which should be any moment now, you can let him know what additional materials you will require." Brennan arched a skeptical eyebrow. "If you need me, the sergeant will know how to contact me," he added obliquely. "If there's nothing else, Dr. Brennan," he said tersely, "I really have to get going. Thank you again for coming on such short notice to assist us."

"Of course," Brennan replied politely, her jaw rigid as she shook the colonel's hand. "I've _never_ turned down the U.S. military's requests for assistance."

"Of course," the colonel said, staring at her for a moment before he turned and walked out.

Brennan slid her bag off her shoulder, opened the flap and pulled out a pair of nitrile gloves—glad that she always carried a spare pair in the zippered pocket under the flap, just in case—before setting her bag down on the floor slumped against the legs of the first steel table.

She snapped on the gloves and stood there silently for several long moments in front of the first black vinyl bag. A thousand thoughts and images flashed through her mind but she squeezed her eyes shut and shook them away. She took a deep breath then brought her hands up to the table top, hesitating briefly before slowly unzipping the first body bag.

She gasped as the vinyl parted to reveal a gruesome sight: a pile of broken steel (presumably the fuselage of a rotor-wing aircraft), bullet casings, assorted mechanical components and hardware (screws, bolts, washers, pins, buckles), pieces of shattered glass, melted plastic (some of it she presumed to be Kevlar), all of it intermingled with tiny scraps of bone, hair and pieces of ripstop nylon, all of it in pieces no larger than the palm of Brennan's hand and all of it charred virtually to the point of being unrecognizable.

It reminded her of the first mass casualty case she had ever worked, and the two long months she spent at the site of the World Trade Center, knee-deep in dusty, smoking rubble, each day spent retrieving hands, feet, pieces of skull, bone, flesh and hair out of the shattered concrete, pulverized glass and twisted steel. Though she knew the death toll here was infinitesimally smaller, this, somehow, seemed worse, and for a minute or two, sifting gingerly through the contents of the bag, she wasn't sure why this particular case seemed to affect her so much more so than what she faced nearly ten years before in New York. Then it occurred to her: she worked the Ground Zero scene with the knowledge that she would never find the remains of anyone she knew in the rubble.

She stood at that steel table, moving her hands carefully through the contents of the bag, trying to ascertain how much of the contents were human and how much were something else, for fifteen minutes, though she had long ceased being aware of the time as her mind wrapped itself around the problem in front of her.

It was only the sound of heavy, determined footsteps that snapped her out of her focused haze. She looked up and saw another soldier in a green beret standing twenty feet away, his back turned to her. The soldier was tall and broad-shouldered, a very strong and fit man, though she could tell from a distance that he had his right arm in a sling. She shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut and opening them again, since there was no way she could rub her eyes with her blood-covered gloved hands.

"Yes?" she said in a low, impatient voice. "What is it?"

The soldier turned around and greeted her with a familiar, toothy grin.

"Bones!"

* * *

><p><em>AN: Yay! Booth is alive! (You knew I wouldn't nix Booth, right? You know me at least well enough to know that.)_

_So, now we have Brennan and Booth, together in Afghanistan, where something very bad has happened. What happened? And why is Booth's arm in a sling? And what exactly is his role anyway?_

_I can't wait to tell you. You simply have to tell me what you think of this chapter and the concept so far._

_Press that little review button and do your thing. __Yes, that one—right down there. That's the one._

_Thanks!_


	3. What Happened to You?

**Killing Two Birds**

* * *

><p><strong>By:<strong> dharmamonkey  
><strong>Rated:<strong> M  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> _Hart Hanson owns Bones. But people like me who play in his sandbox give you all those delicious little moments that Hart and friends leave out. In this case, AU do-overs for that gap between Seasons 5 and 6 that wrought so much havoc for our heroes. That's why you read fanfic._

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** _I am absolutely thrilled at the response I've received on this piece so far. It came to me while driving to work on Tuesday, January 3rd, and I went home and began writing it that same night. I have been thinking for months about how to get our heroes back together in an AU re-rendering of the Season 5/6 hiatus, and I struggled to find the right scenario that worked for me. This one clicked for me. I'm thrilled to bits that it seems to be clicking for other people, too. Thanks to all who have read and reviewed, especially those first-time de-lurkers. Your reviews really do keep me writing. Enough with the wind-up, let's get back to our heroes..._

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><p><strong>Chapter 3: What Happened to You?<strong>

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><p>"Booth!" Brennan shouted, stepping back from the stainless steel table and peeling her gloves off, tossing them carelessly to the floor as she ran to him. He pulled off his beret and held a welcoming arm out for her. She smiled and threw her arms around him, hugging him tightly.<p>

"_Ow!"_ he squawked. "Careful there, Bones." She released him and took a step backward, and it was then she noticed ten stitches along the hairline just above his right temple and a half-inch cut over his puffy left eyebrow that was held together with a butterfly bandage.

"What happened to you?" she gasped, tilting her head and reaching up gingerly to inspect his injuries.

Booth raised his left hand and blocked her reach before she touched his face. "Easy there," he chuckled. "Bones," he whispered, bringing his left hand up to her chin. "It's so good to see you."

"What happened to you, Booth?" she asked again. "You've been injured, clearly."

"I have a dislocated shoulder, a fractured radius and ulna, and—"

"You fractured both your radius _and _your ulna?" she asked, her eyes falling to his right arm that hung in the sling, immobilized in a black fiberglass cast that ran from just above his elbow to his knuckles.

"Yeah," he said. "It took two plates and fourteen screws to hold it all together," he told her with a faint smile. "I guess I won't need to carry a gun to set off metal detectors now."

"Booth," she said softly.

"That's why I was late," he said. "I had to get my cast checked at the base hospital, to make sure the inflammation had gone down or something. Anyway, I'm sorry."

Brennan pursed her lips and ran her fingers over the stitches on his temple and then cocked her head as she looked at the cut over his eyebrow. "Did you suffer a concussion?" she asked. He looked away briefly, then turned his gaze back to hers.

"Yeah," he whispered.

"Were you—?" She didn't finish her question, but merely gestured with her chin at the body bags behind her.

"I was on the ground," Booth replied. "I was there, though."

"Did you know the men in the helicopters?" she asked. As soon as the words left her mouth, she observed the color drain a little from Booth's cheeks.

"All of them," he said grimly. "They were in my unit." He shrugged and swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he shook away a thought. "They _were_ my unit. Operational Detachment-Alpha 3623 had twelve guys in it, eleven of whom were in those choppers. Two officers, nine other senior NCOs like me. All KIA." Brennan blinked as she recognized the meaning of his words. "I'm the last man standing, Bones. ODA 3623 is gone."

"Oh, Booth," Brennan whispered sympathetically, rubbing her palm along the outside of his bicep. "I'm so sorry," she said.

He took a deep breath. "I was in an overwatch position in a building across a square from a café, adjacent to the Gul Afridi market, right? I was surveilling a suspected insurgent leader and providing cover for an insertion operation—two choppers, carrying the eleven other guys from my ODA. Well I could hear the _fwup, fwup _sound of the rotors, so I know they're closing in on the insertion point, and—" His voice trailed off as he glanced up at the twenty steel tables and the twenty body bags they held. "I remember hearing a _plunk, _a _whoosh, _an explosion, then a terrible crashing noise, several more explosions, and then—" He swallowed again, chewing his lip as he gathered his focus. "All a sudden, the building I was hiding out in, it collapsed around me, and everything went black. I woke up in a Marine Corps MEDEVAC helicopter covered in blood, dizzy as hell and with a fierce, burning pain in my arm and shoulder. Then, the Navy corpsman gave me an injection and everything went black again."

"Oh, Booth—"

"I woke up here at Bagram, two days ago," Booth said sadly. "All of the men in my detachment, gone." He blinked and a single tear fell from his eye, which he wiped off his cheek with his thumb.

Brennan felt tears well up in her eyes as she put her right arm around him, hugging him gently before he pulled her even tighter into him, cupping her hand around the back of his head as he rested it on her shoulder. "It's okay, Booth," she whispered. "I'm here. We'll figure this out."

"The Army says the helicopters collided in mid-air," he mumbled in her ear. "Which has happened before, but—"

"But you don't believe them," she whispered back.

He squeezed her against him one last time before he pulled away, sniffing as he wiped the moisture from his eyes with the heel of his left hand. "I'm glad you're here," he said. "I told them you would come. I knew you would."

"Of course, Booth," she said reassuringly. "They wouldn't tell me—"

"I know," he nodded. "I tried to get them to tell you something, knowing that you'd be worried the whole way here, not knowing, but—it's just…I'm sorry."

Brennan took a deep breath, forced a smile, then turned around. "So," she said awkwardly, "we should probably figure out what we have here—that is, from the standpoint of equipment, so that we know what additional equipment we need to request."

Booth sighed. "Yeah," he said. "That's a good idea."

They opened the two stainless steel cabinets. Booth stood next to his partner feeling rather helpless, not sure what he was looking for as he watched her survey the cabinets.

Brennan turned her head and glanced over her shoulder. "How many individuals do you think we have here?" she asked.

Booth pursed his lips and let forth a long, slow sigh. "Twenty-one KIA on the aircraft," he said evenly. "Eleven from my unit, Operational Detachment Alpha 3623, plus ten aircrew from the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment. On the ground, three confirmed dead, but we are not really sure, because—"

"Military or civilian?" she asked, cutting him off as her mind raced to embrace the problem before them.

Booth rubbed his hand over the short hair on the back of his head. "All KIAs on the aircraft were Army personnel," he said. "The three KIAs confirmed on the ground were Afghan civilians—"

"Are the civilian remains here?" she interrupted him again, turning around and surveying the twenty vinyl bags behind them. "I mean, as far as you know."

Booth shrugged. "Yeah, I think so," he said, hesitating a little. "That's kind of a sensitive subject for the locals," he added.

Brennan nodded. "I could see how that might be," she said, pausing to let her glance linger for a few moments on Booth's face. He looked up at her, his soft brown eyes reflecting that wide, vulnerable look that reminded her of the expression she saw as he was being prepped for brain surgery a couple of years before. She felt her pulse quicken at the thought, then bit her lip.

Turning back to the cabinet, she said, "I'll need a full set of surgical instruments, a bottle of vegetable oil—"

"Vegetable oil?" Booth blurted. He stood there for a moment and looked at her with narrow-eyed puzzlement, then a look of recognition crossed his face. "Oh, right," he groaned. "Are you writing this down?" he asked. "Because, uh," he said, looking down at his casted right hand. "My handwriting is gonna be pretty much unreadable if I—"

Brennan walked over to her messenger bag and retrieved a notebook and a pen. "No problem, Booth," she said with a smile. "I'll write this down." Looking back at the cabinet, she said, "Two lab coats or aprons, one medium, one extra large—"

"What?" Booth said with surprise.

"I'm going to need your help, Booth," she said with a widening smile. "Don't worry—you'll be able to help one-handed."

"Umm, okay," he replied tentatively while Brennan continued to rattle off a mental inventory of the equipment she needed to do her work.

"Digital camera, internet connection, a printer, full set of x-ray equipment, magnifying lamp, petri dishes—"

Booth stood quietly next to her with a wide grin on his face as he did his own inventory of sorts. He looked at her hair and noticed how she had cut her bangs—presumably because it was more practical while playing around in the dirt in the Indonesian jungle—and how her auburn hair seemed to have lightened a couple of shades from how he remembered it, standing in the terminal at Dulles six and a half months earlier. Her pale gray eyes were bright but tired-looking, and he supposed her exhaustion was from more than just the travel, his partner being the experienced, intrepid traveler she was. His heart clenched at what she must have felt, traveling all those hours after receiving what he imagined was a frightening phone call from CENTCOM.

"Is that all?" Booth asked with a soft chuckle.

"For now, probably," Brennan replied with a smirk. "First thing we'll need to do is begin going through what we have and separating the human remains from the rest of the detritus." She paused and looked at him, searching his smooth-shaven, hard-hewn face for hesitancy but, somewhat to her surprise, she found none. "Are you okay with this, Booth?"

He swallowed and took a step closer to her. "Yeah," he said. "I want to find out what happened to my guys—and my commanding officers—and to be able to send them home to their families."

Brennan reached out and placed her hand over his casted hand, stroking his still-swollen fingers gently. "Although I'm sorry it required an event like this to—" Her voice trailed off as she struggled to get her mind around where she was, why she was there, and in no small part, who she was there with after over six months of separation. "I'm glad I can be here to help you, Booth."

"Me, too," he said quietly, a sweet smile on his lips. "Thanks, Bones."

A silence hung between them for several long moments before Brennan spoke again.

"Once we have separated out the remains, we'll need to figure out how many separate individuals we have here," she said. "Then we will begin piecing together what we have and begin assigning identity to each set of remains."

Booth blanched at her words. He remembered sitting in the barracks in Qūryah during the detachment's first week in theater, comparing family photos with the other men. He remembered other men proudly scrolling through galleries of pictures of their wives and kids on their iPods, and his heart sank at the thought that these women would be answering their doors and finding two stone-faced soldiers in dark blue Class-A uniforms.

"How long is this going to take?" he asked her.

"It's hard to say," she said earnestly. "Assuming we work ten to twelve hour days, I'd say weeks." The waver in her voice told Booth of her uncertainty even though he knew she would probably never openly admit it. "I'm going to need another anthropologist," she said.

"What do you mean?" he asked, a tense hesitation in his voice.

Brennan frowned. "I haven't really been in sustained contact with anyone since I left for Maluku—"

"I noticed," Booth said evenly, shrugging slightly as their eyes locked briefly.

"I'm sorry about that," she said, averting her gaze. She paused, shifted her feet uncomfortably and tapped the pen on the side of the table nervously, then looked up at him again. "Do you think there is any way we can ascertain Mr. Bray's location and get him the necessary clearances and approvals to come here to Afghanistan and assist?"

Booth shrugged and ran his hand through the inch-long hair on the top of his head. "I'm not sure," he admitted, "but we can try." He rubbed his chin. "You know, the U.S. military has a forensic unit, the Joint POW/MIA Accounting Command in Hawaii. Maybe they can lend us someone."

Brennan rolled her eyes and glared. "No," she said firmly. "I would prefer the assistance of someone I've trained myself over the dubious competence of someone furnished by the military."

Booth laughed. "There's the Bones I know and love," he chuckled. He narrowed his eyes and added, "Hey—wait a minute! I was furnished to you by the military. Are you saying that you consider _my_ competence dubious?"

With a wry smile and a shake of her head, Brennan replied, "Of course not, Booth. From the standpoint of forensics, everything you know you learned from me, so, of course, I consider your competence to be acceptable." Her lips formed a hard line as she tried to keep from laughing.

"Alright, okay," he said with a wave of his good hand. He drummed his fingers on the edge of the gurney. "Well, let me see if we can track Wendell down and then we'll see about getting him a security clearance."

"Thanks, Booth," she said.

He looked at her and smiled. "Of course, Bones." He noted the freckles on her nose and cheeks, presumably from being in the sun. "It's good to see you again, Bones. I've really missed you."

"I've missed you too, Booth," she replied. "I'm sorry about—"

Booth shook his head. "Look, don't—" He stepped closer to her and put his hand on her shoulder. "I'm just glad to have you back even if…" He glanced down at the vinyl bag that gaped open a few feet away. "Even if the circumstances aren't what either of us had in mind."

Brennan squeezed her eyes shut and rubbed them. "I've been traveling for the better part of three days, Booth," she said. "Between that and—well, I could really use a drink, but assuming that's not feasible under the circumstances, maybe you can point me towards my sleeping quarters so I can take a short nap before dinner."

Booth grinned. "I'd be glad to, Bones."

* * *

><p><strong><span>AN: **_Patience, people. _

_What, you wanted me to have them go at it in that aircraft hangar right next to all those vinyl bags full of Booth's dead friends? No, even the Monkey has some standards. All good things come to those who wait. And you might not actually have to wait all that long. In any case, it will be worth it._

_So what happens next? __I can't wait to tell you. Same drill as before. You simply have to tell me what you think of this chapter and the concept so far. In particular, what did you think of the tone of their first conversation? They've got some catching up to do, for sure. But what did you think?_

_Press that little review button and do your thing. __Yes, that one—right down there. That's the one._

_Thanks!_


	4. Closing the Distance

**Killing Two Birds**

* * *

><p><strong>By:<strong> dharmamonkey  
><strong>Rated:<strong> M  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> _Hart Hanson owns Bones. But people like me who play in his sandbox give you all those delicious little moments that Hart and friends leave out. In this case, AU do-overs for that gap between Seasons 5 and 6 that wrought so much havoc for our heroes. That's why you read fanfic._

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** _Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed, especially all those first time reviewers and de-lurkers. I'm unspeakably psyched that you folks are digging this story. _

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 4: Closing the Distance<strong>

* * *

><p>Booth stood right behind Brennan, holding her heavy canvas duffel bag—surprisingly heavy, he observed, wondering what on earth she had in there—in his left hand as she wiggled the key in the door. He leaned over her shoulder and took a deep breath through his nose, a smile breaking across his face as his nostrils filled with the smell of her—the coconutginger scent of her shampoo, now very faint after two and a half days of traveling, and the sweet smell of her sweat, a scent he'd never really forgotten even after all the months they'd spent apart.

She turned the key and opened the door. "Ugh," she groaned at the sight of the room, with its ivory-colored walls, dingy, commercial-grade beige carpet and the full-sized bed covered with a cheap, red and orange abstract print comforter. "This is what I imagine the worst, most poorly-constructed and haphazardly-furnished college dormitory ever built would look like."

Booth laughed. "Welcome to military housing, Bones," he said, closing the door behind them as he followed her into the room and dropped her duffel on the floor next to the bed. "Hey, at least you get a comforter and a private room. This is contractor's housing, and let me tell you, it's a damn sight better than the accommodations they give to us military personnel." He winked. "It's a shame all the four-star hotel rooms in town were booked," he snorted. "Better luck next time, I guess."

Brennan slid her messenger bag off her shoulder and deposited it on top of the wood-laminate desk near the window. She glanced out the window, which overlooked a service road and loading dock across the street, then looked up at Booth with an awkward smile.

"I missed you, Booth," she said quietly, a faint smile on her lips as she took in the sight of him.

The skin of his face, neck and hands looked very tanned, which the rational part of her mind knew meant he was once again ignoring her advice to use sunscreen, but the irrational part of her mind—awash in hormones and responding to the baser instincts of her limbic system—noted he looked even more handsome with a darker tint to his light olive complexion. Brennan noted how short his hair was cut, even shorter on the top and sides than it had been when she last saw him at Dulles, and she was surprised by how much she liked it that way. She felt a vague tingle in her fingertips at the thought of running them over the razor-short hair above his ears. Her smile turned into a frown as she observed once more the ten black stitches along the hairline adjacent to his temple and the swollen, bandaged cut above his left eyebrow.

"I missed you, too, Bones," he said, closing the distance between them with two strides. Their eyes locked, his warm brown eyes glistening as her cool gray eyes stared back, and their faces leaned in close to one another, their noses separated by just a couple of inches. "I-I…" Booth's lip quivered as he hesitated. "I'm so glad you're here."

"I thought about you a lot while I was in Maluku," Brennan said.

"I'd think about you all the time, Bones," Booth replied. "Every day." He took a breath and was about to say more, but instead closed his mouth and pursed his lips.

Brennan felt a smile flash across her lips and a strange flipping sensation in her belly as she looked into her partner's deep, warm brown eyes. "Booth, I—"

She blinked, then raised her hands to gently cup his jaw between her hands. Booth's skin felt so smooth and warm against her palms, and her nostrils flared at the smell of his menthol shaving cream. She stroked her thumb over the pebbled, pockmarked skin along his jawline and pulled his face to hers, pressing her lips to his in a moment of raw impulse. For a moment, she felt his lip quiver beneath hers, then, just as his free hand came to rest on her right hip, his mouth opened to hers and she felt his tongue slide against hers. Brennan felt a warm pulse between her legs as their tongues tangled, their mouths grasping at one another as all the unresolved emotion of the preceding years and months poured into that kiss. Feeling his mouth clutch at hers once more before she ran out of breath, she pulled away and stared at Booth, open-mouthed and breathless.

For several seconds, they looked at each other with lopsided smiles but neither of them said a word.

"Bones," Booth said finally, his heart racing and his breath coming in pants. "I—" His voice faltered before he could formulate something intelligent or meaningful to say. For the lack of anything else to fill the silent void between them, he glanced down at his watch.

"Yes," she said quickly. "I really should—"

He smiled and shrugged. "I'm sure you need to rest and freshen up after all of your travels," he said, his voice cracking slightly.

Brennan nodded. "Yes," she replied. "I assume there's some kind of cafeteria or canteen where we can get dinner?"

"Of course," Booth answered, glancing once more at his watch, since the time didn't really register in his mind the first time he looked at it. "How 'bout I see you downstairs by the front door at, say, five-thirty?"

"Perfect," she said with a smile.

* * *

><p>"So," Booth said as he slid his tray over the steel rails. "It's not the diner or the Founding Fathers, but they do serve a decent burger here."<p>

Brennan rolled her eyes. "That doesn't really make me feel any more comfortable that _I'll _be able to find a decent meal here," she said. "Oh—but look, this looks like _spanakopita. _That's impressive." She reached for the tongs and put a couple of the feta and spinach-stuffed phyllo dough squares onto her plate next to her salad.

"This is a pretty good gig, as far as hot meals go," Booth explained. "When you're a serviceman stationed at smaller FOBs—forward operating bases—you're lucky if you get a hot meal that doesn't come out of an MRE pouch."

"So your palate is happy, Booth," Brennan observed with a crooked-mouthed smile.

"Yeah," he agreed. "But not just my palate." He raised an eyebrow and waited to see her response. "You got what you need there, Bones? Let's find a seat."

They sat down at a small table with a red vinyl tablecloth and four metal, cushion-backed chairs that reminded Brennan of the kind one would see in a take-out Chinese restaurant back home. She raised her chin and looked over at the content of Booth's tray: a hamburger, overcooked fries, two small paper cups of ketchup and a slice of apple pie. Booth saw her surveying his dinner and reciprocated, noting her usual garden salad (with tomatoes that were far redder than he expected them to be), a little paper cup with salad dressing, the two squares of _spanakopita, _and a cup of vegetable soup.

"Guess some things never change, right?" she said with a laugh.

"Guess not, Bones," Booth replied with a grin, rotating his plate so Brennan could reach his French fries. "But that's good, right? You know, to know that some things between us will never change?" _Except, _he added silently, _I sure hope this all means we're going for a different outcome here. _"I mean, you'll never order your own fries, as long as you can steal mine."

"Well," Brennan said with a smile. "It's only efficient to have the two of us share an order of fries. No sense letting the food go to waste, never mind wasting the resources washing an extra plate, and—"

Booth rolled his eyes and shook his head. "So you stealing my fries was really about efficiency and a desire to prevent global warming?" he asked. "Huh," he grunted. "I always figured it was because those salads of yours never quite satisfied your desires."

"Not global warming," Brennan corrected him. "Climate change. And in response to your other comment, well—" She arched an eyebrow at his apparent innuendo. "Maybe," she replied noncommittally. "Or maybe I was never quite hungry enough to eat a whole order on my own."

He snorted and took a bite of his hamburger. "Hmmmph," he murmured as he chewed. "So," he said, tapping his index finger on the table. "I think the key to getting Wendell here to help you is getting him through the security clearance process."

"Wait," Brennan said, fumbling with her salad. "I thought you didn't know where he was."

"I tried calling Wendell but the phone number I had for him kept going to voice mail," Booth said with a shrug. "And, since time is of the essence, I knew I needed to track him down. And, while Wendell has his own place, I know his mom lives in town." Brennan looked at him strangely. "Remember when we had that hockey game and he got clocked by that jerk Pete Carlson and I broke my hand? Wendell spent the next couple of days with his mother, who looked after him after that bad concussion he got. I know he's pretty close to his mom."

"Oh," Brennan said. "Yes, I guess I do remember that."

"So I made a couple of calls, and got ahold of Wendell's mother, who told me he's been working the last few months for DCPS—"

"What?" She gave him a blank look.

"District of Columbia Public Schools," Booth explained. "As a mechanic, fixing up broken-down school buses." Brennan's brow furrowed in puzzlement. "I know, but hey—the kid needs to pay rent, and he's a hard worker. So anyway, I made a few more calls and caught up with him at work."

"You spoke to Mr. Bray?" Brennan asked, the excitement clear in her voice. "That's wonderful."

"Yeah," Booth said. "He sounds good. So, I told him that you were here on request by the U.S. Army, doing some forensic work, and that you wanted to know if he would be available to help."

"And?"

"He is," he confirmed. "But—"

"So when can he get here?" Brennan asked quickly. "Don't worry about his salary or his expenses. I'll take care of that. So, how quickly do you think you can arrange to get him here?"

"Hold on there, Bones," Booth said, holding his hand up in a gesture of caution. "He's gotta get a full military security clearance—not just the FBI background check that he had to have to work at the lab. And that's gonna take a little bit of time."

"How long?" she asked.

Booth hesitated. "Under expedited circumstances and with some assistance from the brass at CENTCOM," he said. "Maybe a week."

"Alright," Brennan said. "So maybe he'll be here in ten days. That will be immensely helpful."

"Just don't count your chickens before they hatch there, Bones," Booth said, a certain caution fraying at the edge of his voice. "Wendell had kind of a rough time as a teenager, you know." She looked at him with a blank, nonplussed expression. "He apparently got into some trouble, minor stuff mostly, when he was fourteen, fifteen, sixteen years old. I can't be 100% sure that he's going to get the necessary security clearance."

"But, Booth," she pleaded. "There must be something you can do."

"I'll do what I can," he promised with a vague shrug.

Brennan nodded but did not answer, instead focusing on her dinner, allowing herself, from time to time, to steal a glance at her partner as he ate his own meal in thoughtful silence, his gaze dissolving into a space just above her right shoulder. He was tanned and strong, having put on ten or so pounds of muscle since she had seen him last, and he looked healthy—except for the obvious injuries from which he was now healing—but she felt a hard lump in her throat as she wondered if she was truly alright after the incredible trauma and loss he had suffered. She thought about all the letters she wrote to him but never mailed—all of them still folded in their envelopes, tucked away in the bottom of her duffel bag—and all of the emails she had composed, all of them still in her Drafts folder, not one of them having ever been sent. _What kind of friend am I? _she asked herself glumly as she watched him eat in silence.

"I'm sorry, Booth," she said vaguely. He blinked and turned to look at her.

"What?" he said as he was snapped out of his haze. "Sorry."

"No," she said quietly. "I was just saying—well, I'm sorry I didn't write or email you these last few months, Booth. I'm sorry. I don't have a good explanation for my failure in that regard, it's just…I don't know—"

"Look," he said. "It's a two-way street, and, well, after the first couple of letters I sent went unanswered, I gave up. Email access when I was down in Helmand was pretty hit and miss, and—" His words trailed off and he glanced down at his half-eaten hamburger. "But it's okay, really. You're here, and we're good, right?"

"Yes," Brennan replied. "We're good."

"We're good," he said again, popping a French fry in his mouth with a dramatic flourish.

* * *

><p>Booth followed Brennan up the stairs to her dormitory room but lingered at the door as she walked inside.<p>

A part of him—and not just the obvious part—wanted to take her in his arms and kiss the daylights out of her the way she had kissed him that afternoon. But another part of him hesitated, and he knew why. After the night at the Hoover, the night when everything could have gone right but instead it went horribly, horribly wrong, he was afraid to push her in a direction she didn't want to go. He finally had her back in his life after six long months—without a doubt, the six longest, most miserable months of Booth's life—and he was determined to do everything in his power to keep her there, even if it meant _not doing _what the other part of him desperately wanted to do. So he stood at her door, watching her quietly as he tried to silence the voices of his own inner conflict.

"You can come in, Booth," she said to him with a smile.

"Okay," he replied with a sheepish grin, closing the door behind him with his foot as the thought suddenly crossed his mind that he was probably violating a half-dozen different Army and/or DOD regulations by being in a female government contractor's room after lights-out. But at that moment, he decided that he didn't really care.

Brennan shrugged out of her tan canvas jacket and draped it over the desk chair. "Hey, Booth," she said, looking up at him as she stood near the window.

"Yeah, Bones?" he said, lifting his eyes to meet her gaze expectantly. She pursed her lips together tightly and swallowed, but for several long moments she said nothing. "What is it, Bones?" he asked softly, pulling his beret off his head as he sat down on the edge of her bed. "I-I…umm," he stammered. "It's just, I needed to sit down and, there wasn't any other place to sit."

She laughed. "It's alright, Booth."

For a moment, Booth felt relief wash over him. She reached up to tuck an errant strand of hair behind her ear, which gesture he recognized as a sign of her anxiety as he soberly watched the emotion wash over her. "Okay, Bones," he said, fussing with the soft wool felt of his beret.

"I made a mistake," she blurted out, turning her head to stare out the window as soon as the words left her mouth.

"Bones," Booth said, standing up and rolling his beret in his hand. "Look, you don't have to—" He walked towards her but she held her hand out, and he stopped, leaving a three feet space between them.

"I really do," she said firmly and quickly. "Please."

"Okay," he whispered.

"I made a mistake," she said, her voice burdened with sadness. "That night at the Hoover, when we met with Sweets about the book he wrote, when you—" She stopped, knowing she did not need to rehash the events of that evening because every word, every glance, every tear was seared into both of their memories as if with a branding iron. "I was scared, and foolish, and while I didn't recognize it at the time, what I did that night was a mistake. I'm sorry, Booth."

"Bones," he said pleadingly, stepping towards her. "You don't need to apologize."

"It's not that, Booth," she said, glancing once more out the window at the empty service road illuminated by a fluorescent street lamp. "I've spent the last six months, Booth, thinking about that night, and what I wish I could've done differently. I—"

"Bones…"

"No," she said, frustrating biting into her voice. "Let me finish. This is hard enough for me as it is, don't you see?" She sighed and crossed her arms over her chest. "I'm sorry, it's just—I didn't mean to snap at you like that, but…" She uncrossed her arms and put her hands on the top of the desk chair, then turned to meet his eyes. "If you still wish to, Booth, 'give this a shot,' well—I would like to try to do that. I want to give us a chance. If you still want me."

Booth's mouth fell open with surprise, but his face quickly shifted into a bright smile.

"If I still want you?" he asked, barely suppressing a laugh. "Yes," he said, closing the distance between them and bringing his free hand to cup her face with his palm, his fingers stroking the soft skin of her delicate jaw. "I want to give this a shot," he said. "God, Bones—it's all I've ever wanted."

And with that, he kissed her.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **

_Well, we certainly moved the ball down the field. Of course, things won't be that simple or without complication, but all signs so far are positive._

_So what happens next? __I can't wait to tell you. Same drill as before. You simply have to tell me what you think of this chapter and the concept so far. Do you think this is realistic in terms of how this might have gone, had this scenario come to pass? I want to know._

_Press that little review button and do your thing. __Yes, that one—right down there. That's the one._

_Thanks!_


	5. The Inquest Begins

**Killing Two Birds**

* * *

><p><strong>By:<strong> dharmamonkey  
><strong>Rated:<strong> M  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> _Hart Hanson owns Bones. But people like me who play in his sandbox give you all those delicious little moments that Hart and friends leave out. In this case, AU do-overs for that gap between Seasons 5 and 6 that wrought so much havoc for our heroes. That's why you read fanfic._

**A/N:** _Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed, especially all those first time reviewers and de-lurkers. I'm absolutely stunned by the response I have received to this piece. I hope you enjoy this installment._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 5: The Inquest Begins<strong>

* * *

><p>Brennan hitched up her bag on her shoulder as the white Toyota Highlander pulled up in front of the female contractors' quarters.<p>

"Morning, Bones!" Booth said brightly, leaning over the center console. "Nice wheels, huh?"

"You must be very happy now, Booth," she said with a chuckle. She smiled as she opened the door and climbed in, dumping her bag on the floor at her feet. "How did you manage to secure a vehicle like this, Booth? I'm impressed."

"Well..." He flashed his eyebrows and grinned. "Being a Sergeant Major has its fringe benefits," he said as he looked down, holding the gearshift loosely with his casted right hand and reaching over with his left hand to push the button so he could put the vehicle in gear. He winced and grunted as he pulled the gearshift into drive. "Yep, I took the form I got from Colonel Wilkins, went up to the motor pool and, between the stripes"—he tapped his left index finger over the rank insignia affixed to the middle of his chest—"and my abundant personal charm, I managed to convince the motor pool NCOIC into issuing me an SUV even though the colonel's written instruction didn't specify what _kind _of vehicle I should have."

Brennan laughed, then the smile faded from her face as his wince and grunt finally registered in her uncaffeinated mind. "Are you sure you're capable of driving with that arm?"

Booth frowned and glared at her. "If that's your way of asking if you can drive," he said tersely, "the answer is _no_."

"No," she replied, "I'm saying that you've suffered significant fracture injuries to both of the bones of your forearm, and I think you should be careful not to subvert the immobilization offered by the cast and thereby jeopardize your chance at proper healing. That's all I'm saying."

Booth's expression softened and he bumped her arm playfully with the elbow of his cast. "I know," he said. "Thanks."

They drove through the base in silence, stopping briefly for breakfast at the DFAC dining facility before pulling up next to the aircraft hangar that housed Brennan's makeshift forensic laboratory. After loading up a rolling cart with all of the equipment and materials that Booth had retrieved that morning from the supply sergeant at the 62nd Medical Brigade, they entered the hangar, Booth holding the door open for Brennan as she pushed the cart toward her area of the hangar, which Booth had declared over breakfast that they should refer to as "the Jeffersonian East." They unloaded the equipment—including surgical hand tools and trays, Petri dishes, exam gloves, heavy vinyl aprons, magnifying lamps, sealable plastic boxes for separating individuals' remains, glue, masking tape and Sharpie markers—onto the gurney, which would serve as an extra table until they received another, fixed-leg table which was due to be delivered, along with the x-ray equipment, in the next few days.

"Sergeant Major Booth?"

Booth looked up at hearing his name and turned to find a captain standing at the edge of Brennan's area. He glanced down at his casted right arm and raised it a few inches before letting it fall helplessly to his side again.

"Sorry, sir," he said, bringing his feet together and standing at attention. "I, uh—"

"It's no problem, Sergeant Major," the captain said with a wave of his hand. "I just wanted to introduce myself since it looks like you're going to be sharing space with my company for a little while." A faint smile flashed across his face and vanished again, puzzling Booth. "I'm Captain McLeish, 54th Quartermaster Company, Ft. Lee, Virginia. The men and women behind me are mortuary affairs specialists responsible for handling deceased personnel and preparing them for movement out of theater."

Booth nodded. "Sergeant Major Booth, 3rd Special Forces Group, formerly of Operational Detachment Alpha 3623," he said evenly. "That's the rest of my unit back there." He pointed with a jerk of his chin to the twenty black vinyl bags arrayed behind them, then nibbled the inside of his lip in awkward silence. Brennan stood there, watching the exchange, and in particular Booth's responses, with interest. As if suddenly remembering where he was and with whom, Booth smiled and gestured toward her with his casted hand. "This is my…this is Dr. Temperance Brennan of the Jeffersonian Institute," he said. "CENTCOM and 3rd SFG called her in to assist with identifying the personnel from the crash." He knew he didn't need to specify _which _crash, since the incident was high profile enough that every serviceman in Afghanistan knew about it.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Captain MacLeish said, extending his hand.

"Likewise, captain," Brennan replied, shaking his hand firmly. "I presume this means that, once our efforts are concluded and we have identified these personnel, we will turn over their remains to your unit for handling?"

"Yes, Dr. Brennan," he replied. "That would be the plan. Do you have any idea how long that process is expected to take?"

Brennan turned to Booth. "Why does everyone keep asking me that, Booth?" she said edgily. With an audible huff, she glared at the officer. "Captain, it will take several weeks. How many weeks, I don't know—it will depend on how quickly I can get the equipment I need to properly complete the task, and more importantly, how quickly I can get the assistance of another forensic anthropologist. But the sooner Sergeant Major Booth and I can begin sifting through these remains, the sooner your unit will be able to do its part to package these remains for return to the United States. So, if you don't mind, Captain," she said, snapping on a pair of exam gloves. "I have work to do."

Booth's eyes widened as Brennan stalked off. He looked at the captain with a shrug and flinched as he heard the loud, sharp _zzziipp _of a vinyl body bag being opened.

"Very well, Sergeant Major," Captain MacLeish said, narrowing his eyes as he observed Booth's reaction to the sound. "Please don't hesitate to let me know if there's anything I or my unit can do to assist you."

"Thanks, Captain," Booth said quietly as the captain walked away. He took a deep breath and walked over to where his partner stood, poking through the charred contents of the opened bag with a look of intense focus.

"Booth," she whispered, looking up from the bag. Her mouth hung open as she watched him, contemplating her words. "Are you okay with this? I mean, with helping me? I'd understand if—"

He shook his head and reached into the box for a surgical glove, then realized he was going to have tremendous difficulty putting it on. "Can you help me?" he asked. She nodded and grabbed the glove from him and, with a soft smile, put it on his hand. "Thanks," he said, wiggling his fingers to test the tightness of the glove as she helped him put on his vinyl apron. He made a fist as he thought of how much he hated wearing latex gloves. He smiled to think that one of the benefits of always having Brennan with him at crime scenes meant he could leave the rubber glove-wearing evidence touching to her, which in most cases, given some of the gooey remains they'd been presented with, suited him just fine. He flexed his fingers one more time and looked up at the black vinyl bag that sat gaping on the table in front of him. A dark wave of nausea passed through him and he blinked a couple of times.

"_Good lookin' kid," First Sergeant Bastone said with a grin, clicking on his pen-sized LED flashflight to get a better look at the photo. He glanced at the photo, then up at his companion next to him, and back at the photo again. "Real good lookin' kid. You sure he's yours?"_

"_Thanks a lot, you fuck," Booth said with a laugh, punching Bastone in the arm. "Yeah, that's my son." Though he sat just inches from Bastone, he almost had to yell to keep his voice from being drowned out by the sound of the Chinook's rotors. "His name is Parker. He's eleven years-old. He lives with his mom back in D.C."_

"_Cool name," Bastone said with a shrug handing the photo back to Booth. "Never heard that one before."_

"_Named him after my spotter in the first Gulf War," Booth explained, _glancing once more at the photo before sliding it carefully into the diagonal pocket on the left side of his chest, patting it as he took comfort knowing the photo lay immediately on top of his heart. _Bastone pursed his lips and nodded in silent understanding._

"Booth," Brennan said, scanning his paled, slack-jawed face. "Are you alright?"

He swallowed and shifted his feet, ran his tongue along the inside of his lower lip, then shrugged. "Yeah," he said, the hesitance evident in his uneven voice. He slid his plastic safety glasses off the top of his head and over his eyes and rubbed the underside of his chin with the back of his gloved hand. "Let's get started."

Brennan nodded and began setting up the surgical trays, tweezers and and Petri dishes on the empty spaces next to each end of the vinyl body bag. She explained to Booth how they would proceed, watching carefully to observe his facial expressions and note the rise and fall of the pitch and cadence of his voice. She puzzled at the fact that it used to be that she was always the one that struggled with reading people's emotions, and was inevitably the one who came to Booth for help when she felt overwhelmed, and yet there she was, standing in an air-conditioned but otherwise spartan aircraft hangar in northeastern Afghanistan with her longtime partner, trying to read and monitor _his _emotional responses, trying to help _him _through a difficult set of emotional circumstances, and—as if any more irony was needed—teaching him the basics of hands-on forensic techniques since she needed another set of hands and his one free hand was the only reliable one available.

"I guess I'm glad I got that tetanus shot before deploying, huh?" Booth quipped, grinning feebly as he pulled pieces of twisted, charred steel out of the bag, carefully rolling them over in his hands as he inspected each for remnants of human remains—bone, skin, hair, flesh, vascular tissue—before setting the metal in the large plastic box that Brennan had labeled "Aircraft Material, 1 of _" with masking tape and a Sharpie.

_Booth leaped up and blocked Master Sergeant Kennedy's shot with his big mitt of a hand. _

_"Yeah, huh!" he grunted as his teammate, Staff Sergeant Swann, passed him the ball and began running back down court towards the other basket. "Star point guard for the Penn State Nittany Lions, baby!" he said as he dribbled the ball, scanning the court for an open man as his two teammates jockeyed for position amid tight man-to-man defense. "Yeah, that's right..."_

_"Penn State?" one of the opposing players, Master Sergeant Parnell, squawked. "And they last made the Final Four when? Sometime during the Nixon administration?"_

_Booth passed the ball to Swann and, as soon as the ball was released from his hands, barreled into Parnell. "1954," he replied with a grin. "But who's counting?"_

_"Not me, old man," Parnell barked back in response, shoulder-checking Booth as the latter tried to edge his way towards the basket._

_"Who you callin' old man?" Booth snapped back as he plucked the pass from over head and took his shot. "That's right," he sneered with a grin as the ball sank into the basket with a soft swish sound, catching only net._

"You're doing great, Booth," Brennan said encouragingly, observing him briefly before returning to her own efforts.

They worked quietly, each of them briefly glancing up at the other from time to time although their eyes never met. After a few minutes, Booth broke the silence.

"Hey, Bones?"

Brennan looked up with an eyebrow raised in concern. "What is it, Booth?"

"You got that list of supplies handy?" he asked with a grin. "Add 'stereo,' 'two stools,' and 'bottled water' to the list."

"Okay," she said, walking over to the gurney/supply table, grabbing the clipboard and scribbling his requests down. "Is that it?" she asked with a faint smile.

"Yep," Booth replied, cocking his head and smiling back before taking a breath and returning to his work.

Another long period of silence passed between them as they continued to work, slowly filling the first, and soon thereafter a second, plastic bin with metal aircraft parts that they had either confirmed were free of human remains or—in those cases where the metal components seemed to have body parts seared onto them—from which the human remains had been carefully removed by Brennan. The silence was broken, this time not by Booth, but by Brennan, who sucked in a deep breath as she removed a tweezer-ful of material from the vinyl bag.

"That's strange," she mumbled, not realizing she had actually vocalized her thoughts until she heard Booth clear his throat.

"What's strange?" he said.

Brennan glanced back down at the fragment of remains she had placed in the Petri dish in front of her and, sighing, shook her head gently. "You said that all of the American decedents were male military personnel, correct?"

"Yes," Booth answered, his brows furrowed. "Twenty-one of them."

"Okay," Brennan said. "And the decedents on the ground—they were all Afghani males?"

Booth set down his tweezers and the piece of metal he'd been working with and took a step back from the table. "Yes," he confirmed. "At least as far as we know. The Afghan casualties were all pulled from the rubble of a café that collapsed when one of the aircraft crash-landed on top of it. That's why we're finding chunks of mud-brick, because one of the choppers landed—"

"Understood," she interrupted him. "So, since Afghan women aren't supposed to be in cafés, we should not anticipate finding any female remains, correct?"

Booth shook his head and walked over to her end of the table. "That's right," he said. "But I don't understand your point. What did you find?"

"Well," Brennan said. "I can't prove it at this stage, but I suspect there is a female in this set of remains." Seeing Booth's puzzled expression, she added, "A female not of any Afghan ethnic group that I'm aware of."

"I don't understand, Bones," he said. "I don't understand who that would...wait, what—?"

She reached into one of her Petri dishes and pointed at its contents with her tweezers: a dime-sized piece of bloody flesh, presumably human scalp tissue, with a three-inch long strand of blond hair attached to it, the ends of which were singed by fire.

"Oh shit," Booth muttered. "That's not good."

"No," Brennan agreed. "I suppose the question is, Booth, is anyone missing a female with blond hair?"

"I have no idea," he said.

Brennan cocked an eyebrow and set the Petri dish back onto the steel table with a pensive sigh.

"But whoever she was," Booth said grimly, "she sure as hell was somewhere she shouldn't have been."

* * *

><p><strong><span>AN: **

**::cue suspenseful music:: **

_Hmmm. Interesting. So now we have a couple of mysteries: (1) what actually happened to make those U.S. Army helicopters crash? and (2) who is the mysterious dead blonde, and what exactly was she doing when that Army Chinook helicopter crashed into the café? _

_Oh, and then there's the whole matter of what's gonna happen between Booth and Brennan as this tale goes on._

_You want to know what happens next? I'd love to tell you, and in fact I really want to tell you, but as I've noted before, in order to cross the dharmamonkey's River Styx (or, as a reader pointed out, the River Archeron), you do have to pay the boatman. So, you want more? You simply have to tell me what you think of this chapter and the concept/flow so far._

_Press that little review button and do your thing._

_Yes, that one—right down there. That's the one._

_Thanks!_


	6. You're Not Alone

**Killing Two Birds**

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><p><strong>By: <strong>dharmamonkey  
><strong>Rated:<strong> M  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> Hart Hanson owns Bones. But people like me who play in his sandbox give you all those delicious little moments that Hart and friends leave out. In this case, AU do-overs for that gap between Seasons 5 and 6 that wrought so much havoc for our heroes. That's why you read fanfic.

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><p><strong>AN****:** _I sound like a broken record but I can't believe how huge the response has been thus far to this little fic of mine. I will work hard not to disappoint you as this piece goes on. Thanks to those who have read and reviewed, especially all those first-time readers and long-time lurkers. You have no idea how truly motivating it is to hear the little beep on my iPhone when a review alert comes in. Basically, feedback like that is the fuel that keeps me writing. So keep telling me what you think of this piece so I can keep writing it._

**Adult Content Warning****: **_In case you were wondering why this piece is labeled M, and if the graphic depictions of blown-apart, charred bits of human remains weren't enough to clue you in that this piece is for grown-ups, please remember that there may be other types of graphic depictions that similarly mark this piece as adults-only. (And that's all I'll say about that, for now.)_

_So, without further ado, let's get back to our heroes at Bagram Air Base in northeastern Afghanistan._

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><p><strong>Chapter 6: You're Not Alone<strong>

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><p>Brennan followed Booth to what was quickly becoming their usual table in the Bagram DFAC, pulled out his chair for him—his free hand being occupied with carrying his tray—and sat down across from him. He set his patrol cap on the table next to him and ruffled his hand over the inch-long hair on the top of his head before turning his attention to his lunch.<p>

"I think I'll always think of that Vegas case every time I eat a sloppy joe," Booth grinned as he picked up his sandwich. A third of its contents fell out the side a moment after he picked it up. "Shit," he muttered. "Dammit." He growled in frustration, picked up his fork and began attacking his sandwich one-handed, the only way he knew how. He grumbled and then, realizing he was being watched, looked up at Brennan with a frown. "What?"

"Two minutes ago, I was about to praise you for going against type and opting for a meal consisting of an entrée other than a hamburger," she said with a wry grin. "But, in retrospect, that proved to be a suboptimal choice."

"Thanks, Bones," he grumbled, then looked up again with a grin. "So does this mean you won't gripe about me eating my burgers, at least as long as I've gotta wear this cast?"

"Since when have I 'griped' at you?" she retorted, glancing down to spear a tomato from her salad.

"_Riiighhht_," he said with a chuckle. "Okay, fine—maybe not griping, but you can't hide those disapproving looks. I can spot 'em from a mile away."

Brennan smirked and shrugged, knowing she wasn't going to win this argument with him, because they had been bickering on the subject of his dietary choices for the better part of five years. A warm feeling spread through her as she realized that, despite her fears to the contrary, it seemed that not much had really changed between them, even after six months of separation and—though she cringed at even thinking about it—the night at the Hoover. She quietly picked at her salad for a minute or so, glancing up at her partner as he tore into his meal, and wondered how much his metabolic rate had increased in light of the slight increase in muscle mass he evidenced since he left D.C. The thought of seeing that increased muscle mass for herself—and not just feeling it under his clothes by way of occasional casual touches—excited her and she felt her cheeks blush at the thought. She moved on to her soup, trying to shake away the distracting thoughts and sensations that niggled at her.

"So," Booth said, his voice dropping to just above a whisper. "We've gotta figure out who the blonde is. I mean, it's obvious that that, _uh_, clump of hair doesn't belong to any of the twenty-one guys on the helicopters because they all had hair cut short like mine." He rubbed the back of his head for emphasis. "And—well," he whispered, leaning over the table, "I was watching that café for about forty-five minutes before the crash, and I can tell you, I didn't see anybody with blond hair, female or otherwise, in that place—at least from my vantage point, which was a pretty good vantage point 'cause I could see right into the café." He gestured with his free hand indicating he was positioned immediately across the street. "All of them were ethnic Pashtun males, with dark brown or black hair and beards." He looked up and away, as if searching mentally for something, then shook his head. "I have no idea who that person could be. If she was with a military unit, her absence would have been noted already. That leaves only three other options, in my mind: civilian contractor, aid-worker or media. But who was she? And why the hell was she in that café?"

"You're still making a logical leap that this is a female based only on a single lock of hair and a thumbnail-sized piece of flesh," Brennan noted.

Booth rolled his eyes. "Now wait a second," he said. "First, you were the first one to mention that this could mean we have female remains, so it's not like I'm pulling this outta thin air here, and furthermore, let me be clear—the only thing that would stick out in this place more than a female with long blond hair is a _male _with long blond hair. If this person's a male, with hair that length, I'd say it'd have to be an aid-worker. Male contractors and media types both wear their hair short here." He raised an eyebrow in response to his partner's skeptical look. "Hey, I'm just saying—"

"Well," Brennan said, setting her soup spoon down and reaching for her coffee. "Once we finish sorting the human remains from the rest of the crash debris, we should be able to determine how many individual sets of remains we have. Some bones are more resistant to damage in these types of cases—because the bone is thicker, and less subject to shattering or splintering—so we should be able to figure out how many people we are dealing with. For example, if there are nineteen individuals, and assuming _arguendo _that we have all the remains that were present at the scene, I would expect to find thirty-eight femoral heads—the ball-shaped end of the femur—since this is a fairly robust bone that is well-insulated from exterior damage by surrounding tissue. Once we do that, it should be possible to separate out the female remains from the male remains, which will be a bit more difficult to separate out from one another due to morphological differences between the sexes being greater than the morphological differences between individuals of the same sex."

Booth raised his eyebrows and blinked as he processed what she'd said. "Okay," he said, shoveling the last forkful of his sloppy joe into his mouth. "So what you're saying is that the female remains—if, in fact, what we have here is a female lumped in with the male remains—are going to be easier to separate out because the differences between, for example, a female skull and a male skull of the same age and race are greater than the differences between two male skulls of the same age and race?"

Brennan rolled her eyes. "Yes," she said in mild annoyance. "Isn't that what I just said?"

"Well, yeah," he snorted. "But I said it a lot simpler and more concisely than you did."

She opened her mouth to respond but rolled her eyes again, fluttering her eyelashes at him in exaggerated annoyance as she watched him dig into his slice of cherry pie. "So, do they make good pie here?" she asked.

"It's not the diner," Booth replied, quickly swallowing a mouthful. "But it's not bad. Actually, Army food is a lot better now than it was twenty years ago back when I enlisted at nineteen." Watching as Brennan lifted her coffee mug to her lips, he added, "The coffee still sucks, but the food's gotten a lot better."

"Booth," Brennan said with a smirk, "the coffee is not substantially worse than that which is available to you at the Hoover." She took a sip of her coffee and winced slightly at its acrid taste. "Actually, I would say it's about the same. Poor quality coffee, stale grounds, brewed too strong. In that respect, I was spoiled in Maluku—the quality of natively-grown coffees in Indonesia is excellent."

"Yeah," he said. "I've been spoiled spending all that time at the Jeffersonian, with you guys and your fancy Starbucks coffee." Booth shrugged and smiled. "A bag of Starbucks ground coffee would be worth its weight in gold over here, actually. If you want to curry favor with people over here, bribe them with good coffee from back home."

"Are you suggesting that I bribe someone here, Booth?" she asked with a healthy measure of snark in her tone of voice.

"No," Booth replied with a grin. "I was merely providing you information that may be useful to you at some later point in time."

"Duly noted," Brennan replied tersely, taking another sip of coffee before pushing back from the table. "Ready?"

"I guess so," he answered with an audible sigh, taking one last sip of his own coffee as he stood up and doffed his patrol cap.

* * *

><p>After putting in another five hours at Jeffersonian East and grabbing dinner at the DFAC, Booth followed Brennan into her quarters, his left hand pressed gently against the small of her back as he shut the door behind him with his boot. He watched her walk over to her desk, drop her messenger bag on the floor next to the AC unit and remove her canvas jacket, draping it over the desk chair, which he noted looked almost identical to the chairs in the DFAC. She looked strong and healthy, which made him smile, glad to know that she managed to take good care of herself in Indonesia. In fact, six months in the tropics seemed to have given her a certain glow that really suited her. His eyes took in the sight of her—tall, lean and straight-backed, her once-ivory arms now lightly tanned and dotted with freckles—and he sighed quietly, his free hand twitching a little as if to remind him that there was someplace it would rather be than resting on his thigh as he took his seat on the corner of her bed.

"Do you mind closing the blinds?" he asked her.

Her eyes widened at the request. "What? Why?"

"Because," he replied, "if I'm seen in here, I can get into trouble. Military personnel are not supposed to be in contractors' quarters, Bones. It's against regulations."

She nibbled her lip as she considered his answer, then reached over and twisted the rod that closed the blinds. "Better?"

"Yes," he said with a smile. "Much. I don't want to end up in the stockade, thanks." He glanced down at his tan boots and wiggled his heel against the short pile of the commercial-grade carpet. "It'd be kind of a shitty way to end the week."

For moment, Brennan stood next to the window and just looked at him.

"I'm sorry, Booth," she said. "You know, if it's too difficult, helping me with the remains, I'd understand. It's alright if—"

Booth crunched his patrol cap in his hand and sighed. "No," he said. "It's okay—it's just…" His voice trailed off and he looked up at the ceiling, sighed again and turned to her. "It's just that—when you lose a comrade in combat, it's expected, right? That just comes with the territory. But you've got the other guys in the unit, and you've all suffered the loss of your friend, and you support each other and get through it." He knit his lips together tightly and closed his eyes. "But this time—I don't have anybody. They're all gone."

A heartbeat of silence hung between them before Brennan walked over to him and placed her hand on his shoulder. "You have me, Booth," she said, rubbing her hand over his round, muscular shoulder. She sat down next to him on the bed, her thin-lipped mouth hanging open a little as she awaited his response.

Booth nodded, then turned his head, rubbing his lightly stubbled jaw across the side of her hand before leaning his ear against her hand. "I know," he whispered. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that."

"Don't be sorry, Booth," she said, placing her other hand on the top of his thigh. "You have nothing to be sorry about."

He swallowed and shook his head. "You know," he said in a low voice. "You spend months with these guys, eating together, sleeping together, going on missions together, going to chapel together, training Afghans together—twenty-four seven, you know—and you get to know them pretty well. You become friends, right? You know what their wives' and kids' names are, who snores and who doesn't, who turns their iPods up loud enough you can hear the words outta their earphones, who takes their coffee black, and you know the one kid in every unit who doesn't drink coffee." He smiled at an unspoken memory, then continued. "You get to know people in a—well, a really intimate way—and you depend on each other, not just in the obvious, cover-my-back-'cause-I've-got-yours kind of way, but you lean on each other when the shit gets really heavy, or when you lose a guy." Booth felt his eyes burn and water. "You take for granted that when the shit really hits the fan, you'll always be able to lean on the guys in your unit to be there, you know." He sighed, his voice become throaty and watery as a tear blinked loose from his eye. "But, no matter how crazy the shit gets, you never think you'll be left to deal with it alone."

Brennan leaned over and kissed his shoulder, her lips brushing across the ripstop grid of the material. "I know it may be of little comfort," she whispered. "But you're _not_ alone. I'm here for you, Booth."

Booth sniffed and turned to face her. "I know you are," he whispered, leaning his forehead against hers. "I know." He brought his left hand to her face and stroked his thumb over the flat, smooth space in front of her ear. "I don't know what—" He pulled his face away from hers and gazed into her pale, deep gray eyes. "It's just—"

"I thought I lost you," she whispered, gently skating her fingertips over the razor-short hair above his ears and covering his temple, carefully avoiding the ten dark stitches there. "I'm sorry for your friends, Booth," she said, her voice catching in her throat. "I really am—but I'm grateful you weren't on one of those helicopters."

"I know," he said quietly, reaching up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. He leaned in closer, his lips hovering just inches from hers. "The Lord works in mysterious ways," he mumbled inaudibly, swaying forward a little so his lips brushed against hers for a fleeting moment. "I guess everything happens for a reason."

"If…" Brennan pressed her lips together firmly as she fought the rising wave of anxiety that throbbed in her chest. "When I was on my way here," she explained, "and had all that time sitting on the plane—I did a lot of thinking." She saw a vague smile flashed across Booth's mouth. "I couldn't help but think that, if by some chance you were alright—well, that this was maybe the universe sending me a signal that—"

"Bones," Booth whispered, brushing his lips across hers once more before, a soft sigh escaping from his lips, he tilted his head to one side and covered her mouth with his. Her lips opened to his kiss and his hips squirmed a little against the mattress as the sensation of kissing her energized every sinew of his body.

"I love you," he whispered in the brief seconds they broke apart, each of them gasping for breath. "I love you."

Their mouths crashed together again, their tongues tangling languidly at first and then, as she wrapped her slender fingers around the back of his uniform's mandarin collar, more desperately, each of them grasping hungrily at the other one's mouth as the room seemed to spin around them.

Brennan moaned into his kiss as she reached for the flap of his uniform jacket. She peeled open the Velcro and smiled as she grabbed the zipper pull and yanked it down.

"Easy there," Booth whispered as a grin broke across his face. "I'm broken, remember?" He watched as she wiggled the zipper pull free at the bottom of his jacket and pushed her hands away as he shrugged his left arm free of the sleeve. "Gimme a second," he chuckled as he struggled to free his casted arm free of the garment. As soon as he tossed the camouflaged shirt to the side where it fell across the seat of the chair, he reached his hand up and cupped her jaw. He kissed her once, his lips touching hers gently before he said, "Bones…do you really…what are we—?"

"Yes," she whispered, dragging her lower lip across the swell of his chin. "I—I want to go for a different outcome, Booth." She brought her mouth up to his once more and grasped for his lips, sliding her tongue over his teeth to meet his. He returned her kiss, his hand gripping the curve of her hip as he savored the taste of her.

"Yes," he said, his warm brown eyes darkening as he watched the rise and fall of her chest. He sucked in a breath as he felt Brennan tug his sand-colored T-shirt free of his trousers and her fingertips skate across his abdomen. "Are you sure?" he asked, licking his lips as he searched her cool gray eyes for a sign of hesitation.

"Yes," she replied, and reaching for the bottom hem of her henley shirt and pulling it over her head. "Are you?" she asked, a feral smile flashing across her lips as she registered his response in the quick dilation of his pupils and a sudden flushing of his cheeks and ears.

Booth merely nodded, unable in that moment to say a word as he stared admiringly at her bosom, the soft, smooth skin of her breasts spilling ever so slightly over the cups of her navy blue bra. He brought his hand up and stroked his calloused fingertips over the swell of her breasts, a low hum sounding from deep in his throat. "So beautiful," he whispered as he dipped his fingers in the cleft between her breasts. "So pretty," he said as he bent his head down and began placing soft kisses along her collarbone.

Brennan rolled her head to the side, exposing the long plane of her neck to his ministrations. The low hum in Booth's throat turned into a deep rumble as his lips moved up over her throat. As he reached the place where her jaw, throat and earlobe met, a thought occurred to him. He pulled his lips away from her skin and looked into her eyes.

"Um…I, uh—I don't have anything," he whispered. "It's not like I came here expecting to—"

She smiled and shook her head with a throaty giggle. "It's not necessary," she said with a crooked grin. "I use hormonal birth control—"

His mouth fell open with a relieved chuckle. "Okay," he said, bringing his lips once more to her throat as he inhaled the sweet smell of her, threading the fingers of his left hand through her hair as he silently grumbled at the uselessness of his right arm. "I—"

"I'll help you," she said warmly.

And so she did—and while it wasn't the kind of desperate ripping off of one another's clothes that either of them had imagined in their fantasies, there was a tenderness and an intimacy about the way she helped him out of his clothes and let him help her, one-handed though he was, out of hers. Booth lay back on her bed and watched her wriggle out of her panties before she climbed onto the mattress and stalked over on all fours, her pale eyes glimmering with want. He could not have wiped the grin off his face had he tried as she straddled his thighs.

"Setting aside the obvious," she said huskily, "the desert's been very good to you, Booth." She traced her fingers over the firm outline of his rectus abdominus muscle, skirting her thumb over the faint line that ran from his navel down to the crisp curls below. "I noticed the other day," she confessed.

"Yeah?" he replied, sighing at her graceful, teasing touch and wincing slightly at the tugging sensation he felt as he hardened quickly under her ministrations. "Touch me," he pleaded, rolling his head to the side as he swallowed. "Please."

Brennan looked up at him and nodded silently, mentally cataloguing the way he appeared in his arousal—his eyes darker and heavy-lidded, his cheeks and ears flush, his flat nipples hard and his olive skin dotted with goose pimples—as she bent over and took him into her mouth.

"Oh, God," he moaned as her mouth closed around him. "Ohhh…fuck…" He felt his balls hitch as she stroked the flat of her tongue over the cleft on the underside of his cock. "Oh…ohhhh…_fuck_..." She took him in even deeper and he felt his swollen tip touch the soft palate at the back of her mouth as she dragged the point of her tongue along the underside of him, then closed her cheeks around him in a tight suck. He groaned and, without meaning to, thrust his hips upward, causing him to bump the back of her throat. "Oh, God," he moaned, his teeth gritted as he tried to hold onto the rapidly-fraying thread of his self-control. "That feels so fuckin' good," he said hoarsely, "but if you keep that up, I'm not gonna last, baby…"

With a grunt of disappointment and one last stroke along his length with the point of her tongue, she let him go and sat up, leaning over him as she supported her weight on her hands. A few moments passed while she caught her breath, then she lifted herself up, holding him where she wanted him as she lowered her lust-soaked flesh onto his rigid, saliva-slicked cock.

"Oh, fuck…" she hissed as she felt him, hard and thick, open her up from the inside out. "Ohh…_fuck_, Booth." His left hand crept around and braced her, his fingers splayed gently over the skin where her back and ass met in a soft curve. She rocked her hips back and forth, her breath catching in her throat as she felt his hard, thick length slide in and out of her, each of her movements being met by one of his own. Though she was impossibly slippery with arousal, she managed a delicious friction as she pumped herself over him, and she felt her release begin to coil deep behind her navel as every movement filled her up more than she had ever been filled up before. "Ohhh…wow…_fuck!"_

Booth forced himself to keep his eyes open as she rocked back and forth. He met each one of her rocking movements with an upward thrust of his own as he tried to drive himself as deeply inside of her as he could. He held his mouth open and grunted softly with each thrust as he felt himself spend rapidly towards a thundering release. Booth watched the expression on Brennan's face change, the way the soft crinkling of her brow softened as her moans and throaty cries became louder and higher pitched with each movement. Her mouth, too, fell open as she flushed, a delicious pinkness spreading over her face, neck and chest when, as a loud, breathy wail passed her lips, he felt her clench around him and then shatter into a wave of soft flutters.

"Ohhh—_Booth_…"

"That's it, baby," he murmured, grunting softly as he jerked himself up into her one last time before he, too, broke, panting for breath as he felt his release pulse into her. "Oh, God," he whispered, caressing her sweat-damp back with his hand as he felt her slowly catch her breath.

"Oh, wow," she breathed, opening her eyes and looking down at him. She smiled as he cupped his hand around her jaw and stroked her cheekbone adoringly with his thumb. "That was—"

Booth laughed as she rolled off of him and sidled up next to him. "Yeah," he agreed. "You are amazing." Their lips met in a gentle, languid kiss, each of them still a bit out of breath and dazed from the experience.

"Booth?"

"Yeah, Bones?"

She kissed his cheek and laid her hand on his chest. "You know you're not alone," she said quietly, tracing her two forefingers down the flat plane between his hard, toned pectoral muscles.

"I know," he said, curling his left arm around her freckled shoulders and kissing her forehead. "I know…"

* * *

><p><strong>AN****:** _Okay, so there's some angst with a generous dollop of smutterfluff on top._

_And, yes, we still have the twin mysteries of what happened to Booth's unit and who is that mysterious blonde decedent. So, while we finally have B&B really together, there's still a lot to do. Besides, Booth still has some issues and angst to work through—and Brennan, too. _

_You want to know what happens next? I'd love to tell you, and in fact I really want to tell you, but as I've noted before, in order to proceed, you have to pay the boatman. So, you want more? You simply have to tell me what you think of this chapter and the concept/flow so far._

_Press that little review button and do your thing._

_Yes, that one—right down there. That's the one._

_Thanks!_


	7. Mayday, Mayday, Mayday

**Killing Two Birds**

* * *

><p><strong>By:<strong> dharmamonkey  
><strong>Rated:<strong> M  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> _Hart Hanson owns Bones. But people like me who play in his sandbox give you all those delicious little moments that Hart and friends leave out. In this case, AU do-overs for that gap between Seasons 5 and 6 that wrought so much havoc for our heroes. That's why you read fanfic._

* * *

><p><strong><span>AN:**

**Military acronyms**: _A reviewer noted that I'm using some acronyms the meaning of which may not be immediately evident. For that, I apologize. Here are some you'll want to take note of, either because they show up in this chapter or they'll show up again soon:_

_DFAC: A military dining facility (what we civilians call a cafeteria)_

_CENTCOM: U.S. Central Command is a theater-level joint (multi-branch) unit of the U.S. armed forces based in Tampa, Florida that controls strategy and high-level tactics for an area of responsibility that includes countries in the Middle East, North Africa, and Central Asia, most notably Afghanistan and Iraq._

_SSBI: Single Scope Background Investigation, a detailed background check used by the Department of Defense for Top Secret level security clearances._

**Reader response: **_Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed, especially all those first time reviewers and de-lurkers. I'm so thrilled that everyone is enjoying this piece. I've really enjoyed writing it and look forward to seeing your reactions as the story continues. So, without further ado, let's go back to see how our heroes are faring in Afghanistan._

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><p><strong>Chapter 7: Mayday, Mayday, Mayday<strong>

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><p><em>The transmission crackled over Booth's radio headset. <em>

_"Forester Niner, Forester Niner, this is Forester Two. Seven hundred meters and closing. Please acknowledge, over."_

"_Forester Two, Forester Two, this is Forester Niner," Booth replied, speaking quietly and evenly into the headset microphone. "Roger that, seven hundred meters and closing. Target sighted at location Coyote-Alpha along with two other suspected Tango-Indias. Please acknowledge, over."_

_He sat cross-legged in the back of the room with his left arm firmly braced on top of his left knee and clasping his right forearm for stability. The afternoon sun blazed through the window and cast a sharp-edged shadow on the floor. Booth sat patiently, cloaked in the shadow fifteen feet away from the window that formed his aperture, untouched by the dangers posed by the sun's reflection on the precision-ground glass lens of his scope. He held his M25 sniper rifle, resting it over the crook of his left elbow as he gazed through the scope at the three Pashtun men seated on rickety chairs in the café, sipping steaming glasses of lightly-steeped black tea. He felt his heart rate begin to creep up as he waited for the first helicopter to respond. His eye twitched as he heard a strange sequence of sounds amid the faint and ever-louder sound of the approaching helicopter rotors: a soft _plunk, a _zipping _swoosh _that seemed to pass right over his head_, _and a loud explosion._

"_Forester Two, please acknowledge, over," he said into his headset, trying to maintain his calm and a steady breath as he continued to watch the scene in the café across the street._

_His call was met only by silence._

"_Forester Two, please acknowledge, over!"_

_A voice crackled over the radio. "Mayday, mayday, mayday! This is Forester Two. Mayday, may—" _

_Then the voice fell silent, his transmission interrupted mid-word by white noise. A fraction of a second later, Booth heard a deafening crash across the street and a sharp crack behind him. Then everything went black as the pilot's last words echoed in his ears._

_"Mayday, mayday, mayday!"_

"You're awake," Brennan whispered, smiling at him as she lay next to him, her head propped on her hand as his eyes fluttered open.

"Hey," Booth whispered back, squeezing his eyes shut and opening them again as he tried to shake off the puzzling sensation of irreality that lingered in the heart-pounding wake of his dream.

Brennan leaned over and kissed the side of his forehead. "You were dreaming," she said quietly. She placed her hand on his chest and stroked her fingers along the space between his pectoral muscles formed by his pectoral fascia. She felt his heart racing beneath her fingertips. "Did you have a nightmare, Booth?" she asked him, her voice soft with empathy and concern.

He rolled over onto his side, leaning his head onto his good hand and resting his casted arm on his naked hip. "I don't know," he said. "I don't—it's just that I'm not sure, you know, if I'm dreaming what I remember, or remembering what I dreamed." He sighed, blinking as he tried to chase away the feeling of panic that swirled in his gut. "I'm not sure I even know what is real or unreal anymore."

"I'm sorry," she said quietly, her heart sinking as she lay next to him, seized by a feeling of helplessness as she struggled to figure out a way to help him. "I wish there was something I could do to help you with this, Booth, but I don't know how. If only I—"

"Bones," he whispered. "You have no idea how much of a help you are, Bones." He leaned over and kissed her softly. "You—what you said last night, about me not being alone? You were right. I'm not alone." A faint smile spread across his lips and he reached over to caress her hip with the still-swollen fingers on his right hand. "You may not believe it, but you're a godsend, Bones."

"While I don't believe in existence of the diety to which you refer," she said with a smirk, "I appreciate your meaning." Seeing the faraway look that had taken over his now-glazed eyes, she stroked his collarbone with her thumb and asked, "Are you alright, Booth?"

"Yeah," he said, leaning his head back to swallow as he looked up at her. "I'm fine."

Brennan reached over and ran her hand across the short hair on the side of his head. "Okay," she whispered, her voice edged with doubt as she forced a smile. "We should get going," she said. "I'll go get the shower started, alright?" She hesitated for a few moments before rolling out of bed.

Booth blinked a couple of times, then looked up and nodded. "Okay," he said, his voice nearly a sigh. "I'll be there in a second."

* * *

><p>Brennan walked into the hangar and stopped at the edge of her area, the so-called "Jeffersonian East," surveying the product of her and Booth's labors. After five days of working ten to twelve hours sifting through the contents of the twenty black vinyl body bags, they had filled twenty-five plastic crates with human remains—mostly skeletal material varying in size from entire femurs, mandibles and scapulae to identifiable fragments of other bones like teeth, phalanges and tarsals and a couple of crates' worth of difficult-to-classify splinters and shards, some no larger than a fingernail clipping, along with hair and small pieces of fire-damaged flesh—and sixty more crates with non-human debris, most of it metal fragments of helicopter fuselage, hardware like nuts, bolts, washers and gaskets, bullet casings and weapon components and chunks of mud-brick and wood from the wrecked café.<p>

"What do we do now?" Booth asked, pulling off his patrol cap and stuffing it into the cargo pocket of his uniform trousers.

He blinked away a wave of nausea at the sight of twenty-two empty stainless steel tables arrayed before them as if waiting patiently for the remains that would be painstakingly assembled into skeletons on top of them. He had been anticipating this part for days, the sense of dread weighing heavier and heavier on him as each day wore on and the separate plastic crates filled up with remains and non-human debris and it became clear that soon, they would begin the process of reassembling the piles of human rubble into human beings, with names, faces—and, for the dead soldiers, ranks and service numbers—as well as, Booth noted grimly, families.

"Well," Brennan began, her eyes scanning Booth's drawn face with concern, wondering how well he would weather this next phase of their task. "We have two major tasks before us, correct? First, the reassembly of these fragmented remains so we can assign identity to each set of remains, and second—although this is not part of our formal charter from CENTCOM, I know it is important to you personally, Booth—to determine, if possible, whether we can find evidence suggesting why these aircraft crashed. I am not sure I can be of much help with the latter, but I can definitely be of use in accomplishing the former." She watched Booth as his brown eyes stared at the empty steel tables. "I know this is going to be very difficult, Booth. If you would rather—"

_"Hey, Booth!" Staff Sergeant Hackett called out with an upward jerk of his chin._

_"What?" Booth answered, wiping the sweat from his brow and wishing in that moment that his team had won the "shirts or skins" coin toss that hot, sunny Afghan afternoon._

_"I'd have thought you'd been through puberty by now, old man," Hackett shouted from the opposing backfield as he waited for Sergeant First Class Dawson to set up to snap the ball. "Where the fuck's your chest hair?"_

_"Fuck you, Hackett," Booth growled, his leg shaking as he waited, his body like a tightly-coiled spring, for Dawson to put the ball into play. "I'm highly evolved."_

_Hackett smirked but did not reply. "Hut one, hut two," he called out to his teammates. "Hut, hut, hut!" Dawson snapped the ball and Booth, whose eyes had been zeroed in on Hackett's hands, surged forward and quickly ran past Dawson as Swann tangled with him at the line of scrimmage and Lukas, the other defensive lineman, dropped back, momentarily confusing Parnell, Hackett's other blocker._

_Booth grinned like a loon as he grabbed Hackett's waist and wrestled the younger but smaller man to the ground with a loud grunt. "You kids gotta cut that 'old man' shit out," he snorted as he rolled off of Hackett and casually tossed the football to Dawson. "It just makes you look like more of an asshat when I get the drop on you like that, huh?"_

_"Yeah?" Hackett grumbled, dusting the sand off his arm as pulled himself off the ground with Booth's help. "Fuck you, Booth," he said with a sloppy grin. _

_"Fuck you, Staff Sergeant," Booth retorted, trying futilely to brush the dust off his sweat-slicked chest, realizing that he was making only a smear of mud in the process._

_"Fourth down!" Swann called out, swatting Booth's bottom affectionately. "Good play, man."_

_Wiping his dusty, sweaty palms on his uniform trousers, Booth smiled and winked as they set up for the next play._

"No," he said firmly. "I have to do this," he explained. "I owe it to my guys, to my unit, to do this last thing for them. I wasn't able to keep this from happening to them—" He pressed his lips together hard and blinked, trying to hold back the tears that he felt burning in his eyes. "I couldn't save them," he said. "But I can help bring them back to their families, and maybe figure out why this happened to them." He sniffed, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand as he swallowed, blinking again as he tried to focus his thoughts. "Then there's that other person—the blonde. We owe it to her—or his—family to let them know what happened to them." He nodded, rubbing the back of his head as he stared at his boots. "Just tell me what you need me to do, Bones."

Brennan took a deep breath, trying to hold back a sigh at the thought that she was the last person in the world equipped to help this man, her partner and friend, navigate through a trauma of this magnitude. _I can put together a skeleton from a pile of shattered bones, _she thought, _but I don't know if I can help Booth put himself back together. I'm not any good at this. I'm not even good at dealing with my own feelings, never mind someone else's._

"Well," she began. "We separated out the remains carefully, trying to keep everything labeled such that remains found in the same body bag were kept together, which means that, assuming that remains that were found at the scene together were packaged together for removal, we should be able to assemble at least partial skeletons for all of these victims." She paused, seeing the sadness in Booth's expression as she spoke. "I'm sorry to sound so, well, clinical about this," she said apologetically. "In the past, most of the remains I've handled have been people I did not know or have any connection to, and—I'm sorry, but.." Her voice trailed off as she watched Booth blink his watery eyes, his jaw shifting from side to side as he sniffed.

"It's okay," he insisted, blinking away the haze and focusing his eyes on hers. "The best thing you can do for me—for them, all of them—is to do what you do best, Bones. Let's give them back to their families." He nodded and rubbed his fingers nervously on the back of his close-shorn head. "It's all we can do at this point, isn't it?"

"Yes," she said quietly. She stood there next to a stack of crates, wondering what to say, when an electric ring shattered the silence between them.

Booth reached into his cargo pocket and pulled out his phone. "Booth," he said, a brief smile cracking both of their lips as the familiarity of the refrain gave them a measure of temporary solace.

"Yes, sir—"

"I understand, sir, but are you sure—?"

"Well, I'll have to speak to Dr. Brennan about that, sir."

"Yes, she's right here—"

"Understood, sir. Let me speak with her and I'll call you right back, sir."

"Understood, sir. Okay, yes. Goodbye—"

He stared at the phone for a moment after the caller disconnected.

"Apparently there's been an issue with Wendall's security clearance. The general at CENTCOM said the SSBI came back—"

"That's absolutely ridiculous," Brennan snapped, interrupting him. She looked up at the steel bracing that supported the hangar's cantilevered roof, narrowed her eyes and chewed her lip pensively, then said, "Give me your phone." Booth raised a cautious eyebrow but handed her the phone. "Is this the callback number?" she asked.

"Yeah," he nodded, a faint smile crossing his lips as he wondered what on earth she was about to do. "I'm a little afraid to ask what you're going to do here, Bones."

"I think it's time to play nice cop, mean cop," she said.

Booth snorted. "You mean good cop, bad cop," he corrected her.

"Of course," Brennan said. "That's what I said." She glanced at the phone briefly, pressed the redial button and walked over towards the supply cabinet. Booth stood a few tables over, his hands on his hips as she waited for the other party to answer.

"Yes, Lieutenant General Heath? This is Dr. Temperance Brennan."

* * *

><p><strong><span>AN:** _Poor Booth. He's suffering. Brennan's trying to help, but she's not sure she can. Speaking of help, are they going to be able to get the help they need from Brennan's protégé and Booth's hockey-playing pal, Wendell? Will Brennan do what needs to be done without irreversibly alienating the brass at CENTCOM?_

_Special shout-out to _**AvaniHeath**_, who has expressed a special appreciation for a sweaty shirtless!Booth. I hope the rest of you folks enjoyed that little moment in this chapter as much as I did writing it _::waggles eyebrows::

_I'm sure you want to know what happens next. I'd love to tell you, and in fact I really want to tell you, but as I've noted before, in order to cross _**dharmamonkey**_'s River Styx (or, as a reader pointed out, the River Archeron), you do have to pay the boatman. (Boatman, ferryman—whatever. I say tomato, _**Diko**_ says tomah-to.) _

_So, you want more? You simply have to tell me what you think of this chapter and the concept/flow so far._

_Press that little review button and do your thing._

_Yes, that one—right down there. That's the one._

_Thanks!_


	8. In Hora Mortis Nostrae

**Killing Two Birds**

* * *

><p><strong>By:<strong> dharmamonkey

**Rated:** M

**Disclaimer:** _Hart Hanson owns Bones. But people like me who play in his sandbox give you all those delicious little moments that Hart and friends leave out. In this case, AU do-overs for that gap between Seasons 5 and 6 that wrought so much havoc for our heroes. That's why you read fanfic._

* * *

><p><strong><span>AN:**

**Military acronyms/terminology**: _A reviewer noted that I'm using some acronyms/lingo the meaning of which may not be immediately evident. Here are some you'll want to take note of because they show up in this chapter:_

**JPAC:**_ Joint POW/MIA (Prisoner-of-War/Missing-in-Action) Accountability Command, a unit based in Oahu, Hawaii that uses forensic science to identify the remains of American personnel recovered from prior conflicts so that their fates can be finally known and their remains returned to their families for burial. The JPAC staff includes forensic anthropologists. _

**CENTCOM:**_ U.S. Central Command is a theater-level joint (multi-branch) unit of the U.S. armed forces based in Tampa, Florida that controls strategy and high-level tactics for an area of responsibility that includes countries in the Middle East, North Africa, and Central Asia, most notably Afghanistan and Iraq._

**DOD:** _The U.S. Department of Defense_

**B-hut:** _Barracks hut—a rickety, primitive form of military housing common at Bagram Air Base. These 18x36 foot plywood buildings typically house eight individuals in small one-person cubicles, four on each side divided by a narrow hallway._

**E-5:**_ A sergeant—the rank immediately above corporal/specialist and immediately below staff sergeant. Sergeant Major Booth is an E-9._

**3rd SFG:** _Third Special Forces Group, an element of Army Special Forces (Green Berets) based at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, which is also home to the John F. Kennedy Special Warfare Center and School, where soldiers undergo training to become Green Berets._

**ACU:**_ Army Combat Uniform—the latest version of Army fatigues, with a digitalized gray/green/tan camouflage pattern, a zippered shirt, button-fly trousers, numerous pockets and lots of Velcro. _

* * *

><p><strong>Reader response<strong>**: **_Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed, especially all those first time reviewers and de-lurkers. I'm so thrilled that everyone is enjoying this piece. I've really enjoyed writing it and look forward to seeing your reactions as the story continues. So, without further ado, let's go back to see how our heroes are faring in Afghanistan._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 8: In Hora Mortis Nostrae<strong>

* * *

><p>Brennan hung up and walked back over to Booth, holding the phone out to him.<p>

He crinkled his forehead and arched his eyebrow. "You didn't actually just threaten a Lieutenant General, did you?" he asked, glancing at the phone—halfway expecting to get an angry, ranting callback from Lt. Gen. Heath—before dropping it into his thigh pocket. "You're incorrigible, Bones, aren't you?"

She tilted her head at him and smiled. "Yes, and yes," she replied with a wink, reaching into the box of surgical gloves. "What was I supposed to do? If we don't get a qualified forensic anthropologist to give me some assistance here, it could take me a month or more to reassemble these remains and complete the identification process."

"I know," Booth said glumly. "But I still can't believe you basically blackmailed him."

Brennan snapped the gloves on her hands and jerked her head back in an exaggerated expression of dismissal. "Hardly," she said. "I simply told him that if he didn't find a way to overlook Mr. Bray's juvenile conviction for breaking and entering that I'd turn over this operation to JPAC and return to Maluku to resume my work on the _Homo floriensis _dig. That's hardly what I would call blackmail."

Booth cringed at the thought of her returning to Maluku, especially after all that had happened to them in the last week. "Well, like Pops said, you have balls," he said, glancing over to the 54th Quartermaster Company's area, then stepping immediately behind her and reaching his arm over her shoulder to retrieve a disposable glove from the box. "And I love that about you," he whispered in her ear with a laugh. "You don't take crap from anybody."

"Well," she said with a grin, rolling her shoulder in response to the way his breath tickled her ear. "I simply choose to voice my dissent when people act foolishly." She bumped her hip against his. "That's just the way I am."

"I know," he said, kissing her quickly on the temple before holding the glove out in front of her limply. He raised his eyebrows and waggled the glove impatiently in his hand. "Help me," he whined with a pout that quickly transformed to a goofy grin. She snatched the glove from his grasp with a glare of feigned annoyance. He held his hand out as she put the glove on his fingers and pulled it over his hand, letting the latex snap against his wrist. "Ouch!" he yelped.

"Booth," Brennan continued, "if General Heath actually thought the anthropologists at JPAC were competent enough to carry out this task, he wouldn't have contacted me in the first place. Although he never said as much, when he called me last week and asked me to come and assist because, quote 'We require assistance, Dr. Brennan, that only you can provide,' that seems to me a clear indicator of the level of confidence—or lack thereof—that CENTCOM has in the competencies of the anthropologists at JPAC."

"So you basically threatened to walk," Booth summarized, flexing his fingers with a sigh as he watched Brennan crouch down and scan the labels of the crates of human remains. He felt the bile rise in his throat as he shook away a vague tingling sensation in the fingers of his right hand.

"Metaphorically speaking, yes."

Booth's heart skipped a beat. "But you wouldn't, right?" he asked, his voice suddenly quiet and pleading. "I mean, you wouldn't actually pull the plug on this and go back to Maluku, right?" His forehead crinkled and his brown eyes opened wide as he looked at her with a vulnerable, childlike expectancy, nibbling the inside of his lip as he awaited her answer.

"No," she said, looking up at him from where she squatted on the hangar floor. "I wouldn't. But the people at CENTCOM or the Pentagon who are responsible for deciding whether or not Mr. Bray gets his Top Secret security clearance do not know that." She stood up and began rearranging the stack of crates to access the one she wanted. "Booth," she said softly as she picked up the crate on the bottom and placed it on top of the nearest steel table.

"Yeah, Bones?" he replied, swallowing at the sight of the clear-sided box and the charred but still identifiable contents. "Oh, God," he whispered as she unlatched the lid and opened the box. The smell of the decomposing remains hit his nose as he saw a piece of pelvis sticking out of the top of the pile of remains inside.

"I'm not going to leave you, Booth," she said, setting the lid aside and gazing deep into his eyes. "I'm here to help you." She blinked away the sudden watery feel in her gray eyes, a gesture that, while fleeting, Booth noted. "I'm here for you and I'm not going away."

Booth nodded and slid his safety glasses over his eyes. "Thanks, Bones," he said with a brave smile. He sniffed and cleared his throat. "So, what are we doing here?" _Holy Mary, mother of God, _he mouthed silently as he stared into the open plastic storage crate marked "Bag A, 1 of 3." He shook his head and turned away, looking up at the rafters above as he whispered a prayer under this breath:_ Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum, benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, lesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen. _Booth felt his breathing become shallow and his heart race as the memories pressed their way from the attic of his mind into his consciousness.

"_What kind of name is 'Booth' for a Catholic boy?" Kennedy asked him as they walked to the chaplain's tent for Sunday mass. "Sounds pretty white-bread Episcopalian to me, Booth."_

_Booth turned and glared at him with a furrowed brow. "It's an English name," he explained. "My dad's ancestors were English Catholics who moved to Ireland in the late 1600s after they ended up on the losing side of one of those English religious wars." He raised an eyebrow as he watched Kennedy process his answer. "How 'bout them apples, huh? Or is that a more detailed response than you wanted?"_

"_Uh," Kennedy stammered. "Yeah, okay."_

"_Saint Joseph's High School, Class of 1989, baby," Booth grinned, pointing his thumb at his chest with a playful flash of his eyebrows. "Altar boy, All-State star point guard, all-around bad-ass—I had my own reserved chair outside Father O'Hanlon's office," he laughed. "I'm sure they missed me when I graduated."_

"_I doubt it," Kennedy snorted, flinching a second too late to dodge the hard-knuckled punch Booth plowed into his arm. "Hey!"_

"_So I'm guessing you're not related to the Kennedys of Hyannisport?" Booth said with a smirk. _

"_Hardly," the master sergeant snorted. "If I was, I might've been able to afford to go to college instead of graduating from the ol' John F. Kennedy Special Warfare School, huh?"_

"_Yeah, right?" Booth replied with an understanding nod. "So does that mean I'm not getting invited to the family compound for Christmas?" _

"_Hey," Kennedy retorted, shoving Booth as they approached the chaplain's tent. "Even my poor branch of the clan has minimum standards for the derelicts we invite over for the holidays. Sorry, but you didn't make the cut, Sergeant Major."_

"_Shucks," Booth said with a shrug. "Better luck next year, huh?"_

_Each pulled off their patrol caps as they ducked into the tent, dipping their fingers into the small ceramic stoup at the entrance to the tent and crossing themselves solemnly as they walked into the makeshift chapel._

Brennan walked over to the next table and opened her laptop, waited a few seconds for it to boot up, and then gestured for Booth to come over. "I know you can't write well left-handed, but I figure you can type one-handed, right?"

"Sure," he replied. "In my usual hunt-and-peck kind of way," he grinned. "What, am I going to be your secretary now?"

A smirk broke across Brennan's face as a dozen possible risqué responses flashed through her mind, but hearing the shuffling sounds behind them as the men and woman of the 54th Quartermaster Company reported to work, she thought better of voicing them. "Well," she said quietly, "I would like to start with the group of remains wherein we found the locks of blond hair, and see if I can determine from mandibular and other bone morphologies the probable gender, age and race of the victim. Then, I plan to reassemble the skull, photograph it, and send the image to Angela to see if she can work up a sketch that we can use to—"

"Wait," Booth said, his brow furrowed in concern. "This is a classified operation here, Bones—if you couldn't tell from the fact that we just had to get Wendell a Top Secret security clearance to come over here and help us. You can't just go off sharing details with Angela about this stuff." His jaw was tight and his temple pulsed with frustration.

"Booth, relax," she said. "First off, Angela contacted me—not the other way around. She emailed me a couple of days ago after she saw an article in the French press about the helicopter crash. She was concerned about you. She asked me if I knew if you were involved and if you were okay. I told her that you were fine." His lip twitched into a vague, reluctant smile and he nodded. "I told her I had been contacted by DOD to assist the Army with identifying some particularly challenging remains and that I might need her assistance with a sketch or two."

"You still probably told her too much," Booth grumbled. "But fine. Does she know you're here with me?"

"Yes," Brennan answered.

"Did you tell her about—" He shrugged with a crooked grin. "You know, _u_s?"

She shook her head. "No," she replied. "What's between us is ours, right, Booth? And besides, the last thing either of us have the energy for is to deal with a squealing Angela."

"That's true," Booth admitted. "Alright, so let's keep the amount of information we give to Angela to a minimum, okay? Because, given the trouble we've had with Wendell's security clearance, I daresay there's not a snowball's chance in hell that we could get a security clearance for either her or Hodgins." He paused and looked around. "Besides, I wouldn't want to interrupt their honeymoon getting them all bogged down in, you know—this whole God-awful, shitty mess."

"That's fair," Brennan agreed. Wanting to cheer him up, she paused and said, "So, my handsome, one-handed note-taker—are you ready?"

"Yeah," he said, a grin creeping across his face at her comment. With a suggestive waggle of his eyebrows, he added, "You should see what I can do when I have _two_ hands."

"Well," she said. "I'd imagine you'd type more efficiently."

Nudging her in the side, he said, "I can do a lot of things more efficiently with two hands."

* * *

><p>"Wake up, Bones," Booth whispered, shaking her shoulder. "It's almost time to talk to Parker."<p>

"Wha—?" Her eyes fluttered open as she groaned into her pillow. "It's so early," she grumbled.

"Early?" he said, sitting up in bed and throwing the covers off. "Oh-six hundred is hardly early. Most days—"

Brennan scowled at him and wrapped the comforter over her shoulder as she nuzzled into her pillow. "I don't want to hear your military macho bragging about how early you get up," she growled. "You're the one who kept me up late last night."

"What?" he laughed. "You make it sound like you didn't enjoy it," he said. "And I know for absolute certain you did. Very much so. Both times." He grinned at the memory of the night before. "Seriously, Bones—we gotta get up. Rebecca's gonna have Parker on Skype in like ten minutes. You wanna shower first?"

"Fine," she mumbled with a heavy sigh as she rolled over and threw the covers off. She sat up and rubbed her eyes, then leaned over and brushed her lips across the edge of his stubbled jaw. "Good morning," she said, raising her head and kissing his cheek before crawling out of bed and stumbling towards her bathroom.

Booth watched her as the door closed and chuckled. _Who knew you were such a grouch in the morning? _he wondered silently. _Actually, I knew that—I've had to share a room with you before, but I guess I forgot. _He wondered whether the guys in the B-hut barracks he was assigned to on the other side of the base suspected where he was spending his nights, then he grinned as he remembered what he'd told them. _"I'm 3rd SFG, boys. I can't tell you what I'm doing because, frankly, you don't have a high enough security clearance to hear about it, so don't worry about me, alright? And if you touch my coffeemaker or my coffee-stash, you're all dead men, so don't even think about it." _They were E-6 and E-7 sergeants in a transportation company—logisticians and truck drivers, more or less—and, after seeing him walk into the barracks that first day with his green beret, they gave him a fairly wide berth. No one asked him why he only came by the B-hut a couple of times a day but never spent a night in his tiny private room, and that suited Booth just fine.

It was 6:15 by the time both were showered and dressed and they had successfully connected with Rebecca and Parker.

"Hey, Dad! Hey, Bones!" Parker shouted, his bright smile and rosy cheeks evident on the laptop screen. Booth's face lit up at seeing his son.

"Hey, Parks," Booth said with a grin. "We can hear you just fine, buddy—you don't have to shout. The microphone picks you up perfectly, even though we're half a world away, okay?"

Brennan and Rebecca, each standing in the background behind their respective Booths, laughed.

"Is your arm feeling any better, Dad?" the boy asked. Booth lifted up his arm and tapped the black fiberglass material with his fingernail.

"Same as yesterday, bud," he replied. "I have to wear the cast for another month, just like that time you fell off your bike and broke your arm."

"Yeah," Parker said wistfully. "But my cast was shorter. You can't bend your elbow."

"I know," Booth answered with a slight frown. "It makes getting dressed kind of hard, though." He bit his lip to keep from laughing when Brennan poked him in the side.

"I'm glad you have Bones there to keep you company, Dad," the boy said. "Hey, Bones—which do you like better, Afghanistan or Mukulu?"

"It's 'Maluku,' Parker," Brennan said, gently correcting him. "Well, I must say that Maluku is very pretty—the jungle is very green and is full of lots of exotic, beautiful plants and animals, but Afghanistan is beautiful in its own way, with its tall mountain ranges and the desert. Deserts are actually full of life, even though they are very arid."

The boy nodded, accepting that answer with a smile. "So, Dad," Parker said, turning back to Booth. "Did you get the package we sent you?"

Rebecca leaned over and tousled her son's hair. "We mailed it out to you last week, before—" She hesitated, pursing her lips as she avoided mention of the helicopter catastrophe, which she and Booth had agreed not to discuss with Parker. As far as the boy knew, his father had been in an accident and broke his arm. They decided not to tell him of the helicopter crash, or the consequences of it. "Before you moved to your new post. I'm not sure how long it will take the military mail system to catch up with you."

"Yeah," Booth chuckled. "I'm not sure, either. I just got my stuff yesterday afternoon—you know, from my previous barracks—even though I've been up here a week. It was getting kind of hard to keep up with the laundry when you only have two sets of everything." He paused, then remembered how the bloodied ACUs he was wearing the day of the crash had been cut off of him and accidentally disposed of by the corpsmen while he was in surgery. "Hey, Becks?"

"Yes, Seeley?"

"Can you send me another one of Parker's school pictures?" he asked, his eyebrows arched as he hoped she understood why he was making the request. A moment passed and a look of recognition flashed across his ex's face.

"Sure," she nodded. "I'll put a couple in the mail for you tomorrow."

"Thanks," he said with a grateful wink. Booth glanced at the clock at the corner of Brennan's screen. "It's time for bed, Parks. Say goodnight to Bones, alright?"

"Goodnight, Bones," the boy said, his toothy grin leaving no doubt in Brennan's mind where he'd inherited that feature. "Goodnight, Dad. I love you."

"I love you, too, Parks," Booth said, touching the screen with his finger. "Be good for your mom."

"I will," Parker said with a slight roll of his brown eyes.

"Be safe, you two," Rebecca said.

"We will," Booth replied with a grin. "Thanks, Becks."

As soon as the connection was terminated, Booth folded the laptop screen closed and pulled Brennan onto his lap. "Parker loves you, Bones," he said, kissing her cheek.

"He's an exceptional boy," she said. "He's like you, Booth—intelligent, kind and loyal. And he's very proud of you." She stroked her thumb over the short, fuzzy hair over his ear. "We're all proud of you, Booth."

"Thanks, Bones," he said, blinking away the flash of a meddlesome memory before smiling back at her. "I'm hungry. Let's go get some breakfast."

* * *

><p><strong>AN****:** _Hmm. There was a lot packed in there. Wendell's on the way, B&B's relationship seems to be evolving but solid, we've got a moody, troubled!Booth, and Brennan's on the case trying to figure out the mystery of the blond locks (and who s/he might be). Oh, and I threw in a free side of Parker Booth cuteness because—well, just because._

_I'm sure you want to know what happens next. I'd love to tell you, and in fact I really want to tell you, but as I've noted before, in order to cross dharmamonkey's River Styx (or, as a reader pointed out, the River Archeron), you do have to pay the boatman. _

_And, in case you were wondering, the boatman isn't a mean, evil-looking, gray-skinned guy on an open-decked rowboat with a paddle. It's my ego—my hungry, tender, needy, insecure little writer's ego that's dying to know how I'm doing here._

::**blinks**::

_So, you want more? You simply have to tell me what you think of this chapter and K2B as a whole so far._

_Press that little review button and do your thing._

_Yes, that one—right down there. _

_Thanks!_


	9. Who Was She?

**Killing Two Birds**

* * *

><p><strong>By:<strong> dharmamonkey  
><strong>Rated:<strong> M  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> _Hart Hanson owns Bones. But people like me who play in his sandbox give you all those delicious little moments that Hart and friends leave out. In this case, AU do-overs for that gap between Seasons 5 and 6 that wrought so much havoc for our heroes. That's why you read fanfic._

* * *

><p><strong><span>AN:**

1) **Military acronyms/terminology**: _A reviewer noted that I'm using some acronyms/lingo the meaning of which may not be immediately evident. Here are some you'll want to take note of because they show up in this chapter:_

_**PX:** A Post-Exchange, which is a store on a military base that is a cross between a department store and a supermarket._

_**MP:** Military Police_

_**CID:** United States Army Criminal Investigation Command (USACIDC, usually abbreviated as just CID) investigates felony crimes and serious violations of military law within the United States Army. For those who watch NCIS, it's the Army equivalent._

_**Article 32:** Under the Uniform Code of Military Justice (UCMJ), an Article 32 hearing is an investigative hearing held before a Judge Advocate. It is the military equivalent of a civilian preliminary hearing._

_**PT:** Physical Training—the Army term for exercise. PT shorts are gray cotton/poly blend gym shorts._

_**ALDS:** This is not a military term, actually _::grins::_ This one refers to the American League Division Series, a baseball playoff series that would have been made available to troops through the American Forces Network (AFN) broadcasts._

_**AFN:** American Forces Network—basically, the proprietary radio/TV cable/satellite system administered by the US military for the benefit of service personnel. Personnel deployed in theater would have access to American TV programming via AFN._

2)** Reader**** response****: **_Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed, especially all those first time reviewers and de-lurkers. I'm so thrilled that everyone is enjoying this piece. I've really enjoyed writing it and look forward to seeing your reactions as the story continues. So, without further ado, let's go back to see how our heroes are faring in Afghanistan._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 9: Who Was She?<strong>

* * *

><p>"So," Brennan said, tugging off her gloves and dropping them into the trash bin next to the supply cabinet. She twisted the top off her bottle of water and took a long drink. "Please read back to me what you just took down."<p>

Booth smirked. "I really have become your secretary, haven't I?" he asked.

"Oh, how the mighty have fallen," she quipped, taking another pull of water before setting it aside. "Go on." She retrieved another pair of latex gloves from the box and snapped them on.

"Complete mandible permits morphological analysis of the gonial angle," Booth read from the screen, his forehead crinkled as he stumbled through the text. "Smooth flare of gonial angle along with minimal protrusion makes it probable that mandible belongs to a female decedent. Smaller diameter canine teeth also strongly suggests female. Pointed chin structure further suggests female but is not alone determinative."

"Good," Brennan said. "See? The mandible matches the rest of the cranium here." She held up a fire-damaged skull, the forehead and left eye socket of which had been crushed by a large blunt force. Small portions of the scalp remained attached at the base and along the sides of the skull, along with a few locks of blond hair.

"So it's a female?" Booth asked, wincing as he watched his partner examine the skull she held between her hands.

"Yes," she confirmed. "There's little doubt in my mind that this is a female. Racial markers indicate she was a Caucasian, between the ages of twenty-nine and thirty-five, based on erosion of the tooth enamel, complete eruption of the wisdom teeth and the extent to which the endocranial sutures have closed." Brennan set the skull down in the plastic bin and picked up the pelvis. "She's never given birth, based on the pubic symphysis," she said, pointing to the front of the pelvic girdle.

"That, along with the blond hair, should be enough to find out who she was," he said, reaching into his pocket for his phone. "I have to let the MPs know about this."

Brennan's eyes narrowed. "I already emailed the photographs of the skull to Angela," she said. "I would like to wait until—"

"What?" Booth said edgily. "When did you do that?"

"When you went over to the PX to get us drinks and sandwiches," she explained matter-of-factly. "The tooth enamel is in relatively good condition despite the exposure of the remains to fire, so it would be possible to confirm identity to dentals if we had dental records to compare them to."

"Which we don't," Booth grumbled. "Look, I can't hang onto this information, Bones. I don't have any law enforcement authority here. I'm a soldier, okay? My orders at the moment are to assist you in identifying these remains and, once that is done, to facilitate the transfer of the remains to the cognizant Mortuary Affairs unit for handling and transport back to Dover. Anything that goes beyond that scope is going to land me in a whole world of trouble here."

"Angela promised me she could have a preliminary sketch by tomorrow morning Afghan time," Brennan said pleadingly. "If I can give you a sketch and my osteological report, then you'll have something definitive and useful to give to the Military Police."

"What if I get in trouble for communicating with Angela about—?"

"You won't, Booth," she said. "I will take responsibility for that. If the military authorities get upset, I'll fall on my knife and take the responsibility for it."

"Fall on your sword, you mean," he corrected her. "I don't know, Bones. I'm just not sure—"

"Booth," she said to him solemnly. "The Army asked me to come here because the people in charge—the brass, as you say—thought that _my_ expertise, _my_ techniques, and _my_ process were critical in identifying these casualties so their remains could be given back to their families."

He turned away, chewing his lip as he considered her words. She was right, of course—the way she usually was—but Booth's gut clenched at the idea of so brazenly toeing the line between adhering to the scope of his orders and overstepping his bounds and nosing into the jurisdiction of the MPs and Army CID.

"Listen to me, Booth," she pleaded. "Give Angela until tomorrow morning our time. Then, whatever we have on the blond woman, I'll turn over to you and you can turn it over to the proper military authority for handling. But let me follow my process on this one: _our _process, Booth—the one you and I have used and which has served us well for the last five years. This woman, whoever she is—and whatever circumstances she found herself in that landed her here—deserves the best we can offer, right?"

Booth swallowed and nodded, gazing into her intense gray eyes. "Yes," he whispered. "Just—look, just keep in mind that we're really, _really _toeing the line here. Tomorrow morning, whatever we have, I'm taking to the MPs. I don't have any other choice, okay?" He nervously drummed his fingers on the edge of the steel table. "The last fucking thing I need right now is to be brought in front of an Article 32 hearing because I withheld evidence or, worse, disclosed classified information to an unauthorized recipient."

"I understand," she assured him quietly. "You never contacted her. You've not been in contact with Angela—I have. It will be fine. Tomorrow morning, we'll turn over everything we have on this woman." She reached out and squeezed his hand in hers. "I promise."

* * *

><p>Booth lay on Brennan's bed in a gray Army T-shirt and PT shorts flipping the channels on her TV. "Bones," he said to her with a grin. "I haven't watched TV in a while—since, hell, I don't even know when. I think I caught one of the ALDS games before we began that operation in Marjeh couple of weeks ago." <em>I think—right? <em>He narrowed his eyes, as he tried to recall the two or three weeks immediately prior to the failed mission. He normally had a good memory for such things, but this time, he could only remember little bits and pieces. He frowned at being unable to recall which game he had even watched—surprising considering he normally could rattle off box scores with little effort. _That's weird, _he noted silently.

"Do you mind if we catch a bit of news?" Brennan asked. Seeing Booth shoot her a puzzled look as he turned the remote control over and looked at the channel guide taped on the back, she shrugged. "I know, I usually don't care about current events, but for some reason, between being isolated in the jungle in Maluku and being trapped in this strange military bubble the last week or so, I feel a curious desire to know what's happening back home. I even asked Mr. Bray to pick up a copy of the _Post _at Dulles on his way so I can read a real newspaper. It's strange, I know."

"No," Booth laughed. "I totally understand," he said. "_Totally. _No problem." He clicked the remote a couple of times and settled on the AFN News channel. "Lookie there, Bones—just in time to catch the news. Well, last night's news, that is."

"Good enough," she said with a chuckle, crawling onto the bed, tucking a pillow behind her back and snuggling up next to him with her head on his shoulder. "Perfect."

He turned his head slightly and kissed her forehead softly as Brian Williams began the broadcast. They listened in silence as the program cycled through the usual litany about politics, the President's ongoing struggle with the Republican-controlled Congress, a report on the day's stock market results followed by yet another story on the dismal condition of the American economy, before shifting to a story about the war in Afghanistan.

"_And now for a report brought to us by Hannah Burley of NBC's Middle East bureau," the anchor said._

The story focused on the way that the U.S. military operation in Marjeh had affected the day-to-day lives of local Afghan civilians. Brennan brought her hand and rested it on Booth's left forearm, caressing it under her palm as the story continued. She felt the muscles of his forearm tense slightly beneath her fingertips as the reporter described how American military roadblocks and house-to-house searches had impaired the daily routines of the local inhabitants. The image on the screen shifted away from a group of bearded Afghan men standing in front of a mud-brick building to a squad of a dozen American troops on patrol.

"Those are Marines," Booth said quietly. "Seventh Marine Regiment." Brennan looked up at him with open, sympathetic eyes. "Pretty squared-away guys, really. Had to deal with them quite a bit down there. Mostly young kids—you know, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one years old. One of them kept saying I was old enough to be his grandpa."

"Well," Brennan said with a faint smile. "That's somewhat inaccurate. Technically, you are old enough to be his father, but not his grandfather."

"Thanks, Bones," he grumbled. "Thanks a lot."

"You know I'm only teasing you," she said, stroking her fingertips over the veins on the top of his left hand.

"Yeah," he replied with a grin. "And you're getting very good at it there, Bones. Too good." She smiled. "But you should know by now that you'll never be as good at teasing as I am…"

"Is that so?" Brennan asked, sliding her hand over to his belly, causing him to suck in a breath as his abdominal muscles tightened under her touch.

"That's right," he replied, turning away to watch the end of the segment.

"_That was Hannah Burley, reporting tonight from Marjeh in southern Afghanistan," the anchor said as he transitioned to the next segment. "And now, to Syracuse, New York, where we see—"_

"So," Brennan said, pulling his T-shirt up over his navel and tracing circles around his belly button with feather-light touches of her index finger. "You're really going to ignore me in favor of a so-called news segment on changing migratory patterns of Canada geese in upstate New York?"

Booth smirked, trying to contain a snicker while simultaneously attempting to keep from twisting or twitching in response to her ticklish caresses. "Hey," he said, his voice as even as he could though he heard it crack at the edges. "I have very positive childhood memories of standing on the front porch of our house in Pittsburgh watching the Canadian geese come and go every spring and fall."

She slid her hand up into the flat space between his pectoral muscles. "Really?" she asked huskily, swiping her thumbnail across his nipple, eliciting a hiss from him as he leaned his head back and swallowed. "Because something tells me you're really not all that interested in those Canada geese at the moment. But what do I know?"

"Hmmmm," Booth murmured as he reached for the remote and, rolling his head to the side as Brennan began kissing his neck, clicked the TV off. "I think you are playing with fire, Dr. Brennan," he said, tossing the remote onto the nightstand as he felt her lips draw a sucking kiss over his Adam's apple. "And you know what happens to people who play with fire."

"Mmmm," she murmured back, smiling at the sensation of his larynx humming and moving under her lips. "What's that?" she asked, licking the soft skin over his Adam's apple as it bobbed beneath her tongue.

Booth grunted and rolled her onto her back as he slid off the bed, quickly reaching for her with his good hand and pulling her hips to the edge of the mattress. "You'll find out, won't you?" he said with a crooked grin as he tugged at the elastic waistband of her yoga pants. "You naughty little minx," he whispered. "You're not wearing any underwear." He slid the pants over her hips and swiftly pulled them off her legs, tossing them carelessly in the corner of the room. "Very naughty, going commando like that."

Brennan reached down and pulled her spaghetti-strap tank top off as she watched him shrug out of his Army T-shirt one arm at a time. "So I've been naughty?" she said. "What are you going to do about that, Booth?" Her hips squirmed a little as her legs fell apart loosely in anticipation. "Punish me somehow?"

"I think you know," he growled, his eyes having suddenly turned almost black with desire. "Would you like to find out, you little minx?" He reached down and shoved his PT shorts off roughly, his erection twitching slightly as he stepped out of them and towards her.

"Yes," she hissed, thrusting her hips off the mattress slightly as she felt his hand cup her knee and glide across the silky skin along the inside of her thigh. "Yes—I would."

Booth brushed the knuckles of his fisted hand across her damp, neatly-trimmed curls. "Then who am I to deny you?" he said as he unfurled his fist and swiped two fingers up the length of her slippery folds. "You're so wet, you naughty, naughty woman. Running around without panties, dripping wet," he said in a dark, husky voice. "_So _naughty." He pulled his hand away and brought his fingers to his lips, licking them and moaning audibly. "You taste fucking fantastic, Bones," he whispered, grinding his hip against the inside of her thigh.

"Stop teasing me," she whined.

"Huh," he grunted. "So the talented teasing genius can't take a little teasing?" He punctuated his question with another swipe along the wet length of her.

"Stop it," she whispered, twisting her hips against his touch. "Take me," she demanded. "_Take _me."

Booth did not respond except with a throaty groan as he pressed his tip against her hard, swollen clit. He stroked himself against her once, then twice before moving down and leaning deeply into her, gliding his thick, rigid length into her slowly as he sucked in a breath of ecstasy.

"Ohhh…fuck," she moaned as he parted her from within. "Oh my God," she sighed as she felt herself filled up by him, then suddenly empty as he pulled nearly all the way out before driving into her again.

Booth grasped her hip with his one good hand and pulled her closer, the rounded swell of her ass perched on the edge of the mattress as he felt his balls smack against her with each of his strokes. "Fuck, you feel good," he growled, grunting softly as he drove into her, glad that he had found a position where he could take control, pounding into her with a steady force and delicious leverage without having to lean on his injured shoulder or casted arm. "Holy fuck!" he sighed, slowly sliding out before ramming into her with enthusiastic vigor.

He fell into a steady two-stroke rhythm, thrusting deeply into her with every ounce of barely-controlled force he could muster before withdrawing as slowly as he could bear and pounding into her once more. She answered his movements with her own, her hips pushing up as she met each of his gently-grunted strokes with a searing friction, each time anticipating with an open-mouthed moan as he ground against her most sensitive flesh.

"Ohhh…" Her breath caught in her throat as she felt him begin to press more deeply inside of her, rolling his hips back and then driving into her. The room began to spin around her as she felt herself begin to free-fall, each evenly-met stroke soaring into an ever-tightening gyre of pleasure. "Ohhh…_fuck!"_

Booth felt her slippery walls tighten around him and knew she was close. He slowed his movements, reaching down and palming the slight round of her belly as he brought his thumb over her clit. It took only a few circles over her flesh before she peaked, a long, breathy moan escaping from her gaping lips as she clenched around him and then trembled as her back arched off the bed.

The sight of her back arching off the bed as he felt her flutter around him snapped the last remaining threads of Booth's self-control. He broke, pressing as deeply into her as he could as he, too, shattered, groaning her name as his release pulsed into her.

"Oh _fuck_, Booth," she sighed as she felt him spasm. "Ohhh…" She reached for his hips and pulled him once more into her as she felt his warmth spread inside of her.

Lingering inside of her for several long moments as he caught his breath, it was with a reluctant sigh that Booth pulled out of her, catching an errant drip in his hand as he watched her pull herself all the way back onto the bed and slide over to her side. Several more moments passed in silence between them as he pulled back the sheets on his side of the bed and climbed in next to her with a contented smile.

"Mmmmm," was all he could manage to say as he leaned in to kiss her, cupping his hand over her slender shoulder and stroking his palm along the side of her arm as he savored the taste of her mouth.

A faint beep sounded in the corner of the room as Brennan pulled away from his kiss with a brow furrowed in temporary confusion.

"What's that?" Booth asked, pouting as she rolled out of bed and walked over to the laptop. "What are you doing?" he grumbled as he propped his pillow behind his back as he drew his legs up and frowned. "Awww, come on, Bones."

"It's Angela," Brennan said quietly as she clicked open her email. She read in silence before stepping back and whispering, "Booth—"

"What?" he whined. "We were kinda having a moment there, Bones, you know."

"I'm sorry," she said earnestly, glancing at him over her shoulder before turning back to the laptop screen. "You should come take a look at this, Booth."

"Fuck." Booth sighed loudly as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, scratching the buzz-cut hair on the back of his head before standing up and walking over to the desk. He rubbed his eyes as he looked at the image on the screen.

"Does that look like who I think it does?" Brennan asked.

Booth narrowed his eyes and stared at the image in open-mouthed surprise. "That's not—" He shook his head and rubbed his eyes again. "It looks like that reporter we saw on TV tonight."

"It has to be," she agreed. "It's an absolutely uncanny likeness."

"Shit," Booth muttered.

Brennan shrugged and stared at the image on the screen. "Is that bad?" she asked.

"It's not good," he replied with a sigh, shaking away a vague tingling in his casted hand. "Not good at all."

* * *

><p><strong>AN****:** _Aha! So it __was__ Hannah Burley. But WTF does that mean? WTF was she doing in that café? And WTF happens now?_

_I'm sure you want to know. I'd love to tell you, and in fact I really, really want to tell you. I'm dying to tell you the rest of this story. _

_Do you want more? I know you do, because Wendell's coming to Afghanistan to lend Booth and Brennan a helping hand. And that's gotta mean even more fun, right?_

_Please, tell me what you think of this chapter and K2B as a whole so far._

_Press that little review button and do your thing._

_Yes, that one—right down there. _

_Thanks!_


	10. Numbness

**Killing Two Birds**

* * *

><p><strong>By:<strong> dharmamonkey

**Rated:** M

**Disclaimer:** _Hart Hanson owns _Bones_. But people like me who play in his sandbox give you all those delicious little moments that Hart and friends leave out. In this case, AU do-overs for that gap between Seasons 5 and 6 that wrought so much havoc for our heroes. That's why you read fanfic._

* * *

><p><strong><span>AN:**

1) **Military acronyms/terminology**: _A reviewer noted that I'm using some acronyms/lingo the meaning of which may not be immediately evident. Here are some you'll want to take note of because they show up in this chapter:_

**NCOIC:**_ Non-Commissioned Officer in Charge is an enlisted soldier, normally the senior-most NCO in a given military unit, who has limited command authority over others in that unit._

**MP:** _Military Police_

**DFAC: **_A military dining facility (what we civilians call a cafeteria)_

2) **Reader response****: **_Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed, especially all those first time reviewers and de-lurkers. I'm so thrilled that everyone is enjoying this piece. I've really enjoyed writing it and look forward to seeing your reactions as the story continues. So, without further ado, let's go back to Bagram._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 10: Numbness<strong>

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><p>It was early. Brennan could see the Afghan dawn begin to light up the dark, purple twilight with a warm orange glow between the gaps in the blinds. She lay on her side, silent but fully awake, watching Booth as he lay next to her on his back, his head resting on his free hand as his casted hand fell across the sheet that covered his hip. His breathing was even and she could tell he was thinking from the way his eyes would periodically narrow and blink, and from the way his lips would purse together and twitch.<p>

"What's wrong, Booth?" she asked him, stroking her fingers along the smooth, soft skin on the inside of his bicep. "What are you thinking about?"

A faint smile flashed across his lips as he rolled his head to the side to look at her. "You know," he said, his morning voice low and gravelly from sleep. "For someone who isn't very good at reading people, you've gotten very good at reading me."

"You're worried about something, Booth," she said quietly, sliding her thumb back and forth over the silky, warm skin that overlay the firm edge of his bicep. She traced her fingers along the arc of his pectoralis major muscle, following it from where the point of insertion on the lateral lip of the bicipital groove of the humerus across the top of his chest to his clavicle. She bit the inside of her lip to keep from smiling at the pleasure of touching him this way—not in a sexual way, exactly, but rather admiring with a sensual curiosity the impressive form of his body.

"I don't know," he mumbled, shifting his jaw from side to side as he closed his eyes, trying to relax into her touch. "I just don't know."

"_I don't know," Master Sergeant Parnell said loudly as he stood behind the bench spotting Master Sergeant Kennedy. "I don't think he can do it."_

"_You don't think who can do what?" Booth asked as he settled onto his own bench, laying down and raising his hands to grasp the barbell as it sat on the uprights. _

"_Kennedy here says you can bench two-fifty," Parnell said with a crooked grin. "But I don't believe him."_

"_Really?" Booth said, relaxing his grasp on the barbell, drumming his fingers lightly on the steel bar before reforming his grip. It was his third day at Ft. Bragg, his second day with Operational Detachment-Alpha 3623, and though he was the senior non-commissioned officer and thus the NCOIC of the detachment, he was nonetheless being put through the usual hazing ritual to which all new Green Berets were subjected._

"_Yeah, really," Parnell retorted, his ragged voice hard with the dropped r's and broad vowels of his native South Boston. "What are you, like forty-five or somethin'?"_

"_Thirty-nine, you fuck," Booth replied, refusing to give Parnell so much as a second of eye contact. He looked up and quirked an eyebrow at his spotter, Staff Sergeant Swann, who he guessed couldn't have been more than twenty-two. "Start with a forty-five and a twenty-five on each side," he told him. Swann hesitated. "Do it. Then load it up 'til I have two-hundred." The young sergeant loaded up the barbells with enough weight that, taking into account the weight of the bar itself, equaled two hundred pounds._

_With a jerk of his chin, he signaled to Swann he was ready to begin lifting. He grunted softly when he lifted the barbell off the uprights and immediately felt a pleasant, warm tightness in his chest and shoulders as he easily completed ten reps. He hesitated for a moment and concluded another ten before bringing the barbell back up to the uprights. _

"_Give me another fifty, Staff Sergeant," he said evenly. With a vague smile, Swann rearranged the plates and added an extra twenty-five pounds to each side of the barbell. Booth turned his head to the side. "So hey, Southie!" he called out to Parnell with a toothy grin. "If I can do two sets of ten at two-fifty, you owe me a fuckin night of beers on your nickel. If I fail, I'll take you out on mine. Deal?"_

_Parnell shot Kennedy a narrow-eyed look and smirked. "Two seventy-five and you've got a deal, old man."_

"_You're on," Booth said. He turned to Swann and grinned. "You heard him." With a shrug, Swann added the weight and took his place by the uprights._

_With a loud grunt, Booth hoisted the barbell over the uprights and lowered it to his chest. With each heaving lift, he felt a tight burn spread across his chest, over his shoulders and sear down the backs of his upper arms. A bead of sweat broke loose from his temple and dribbled in front of his ear and down his neck as he kept a steady pace. Halfway through, after the first set of ten reps, he brought the barbell to the uprights and took a deep breath._

"_Uh oh," Parnell said, elbowing Kennedy who snickered. "Look at that. Got a problem there, old man?"_

"_No problem here," Booth growled. "Give me another ten," he ordered Swann, who swiftly added a five pound plate to each end._

_Booth took a deep breath and with a grunting heave, lifted the barbell once more over the uprights. With steady, even movements, each one punctuated by a soft grunt, he completed the second set of ten before once more returning the barbell to the uprights._

"_How 'bout them apples, Parnell?" Booth said, letting the raw edge of his Philadelphia accent bleed through his voice. "Huh?"_

"_Look at that." Parnell raised his eyebrows and shrugged. "Guess I'm buyin', Sarge," he said._

"_That's right," Booth said, sitting up and flexing his arms as he smirked at the other man. "Three things to keep in mind, Master Sergeant, okay? So listen up. First off, I'm thirty-nine, not forty-five. Second, I fought in my first war when you jagoffs were still playing Little League. Third, I may be old enough to be Swann's dad, but I can still kick your ass." He chuckled and added, "Just a friendly note to self."_

"_Thanks for the tip, Sarge," Parnell snorted._

"_No problem," Booth replied, wiping the sweat off the back of his head with a hand towel and tossing the towel in Parnell's face as he walked by._

"Talk to me, Booth," she whispered. "What are you thinking about?"

"It's not really a big deal," he grumbled. "It's nothing."

Brennan heard the gravity in his low voice and she knew that, whatever was weighing on him, it was more than nothing. She considered pressing him about it, but decided against it. She slid her hand across his belly and reached for his casted hand. His long, thick fingers were no longer swollen or discolored the way that they had been in the days immediately following her arrival at Bagram. She gently squeezed the fingers of his casted hand. She watched his eyes as he seemed to be formulating a response, then she glanced down at his hand. Normally, when she had squeezed the fingers of his right hand, he wiggled them in response. But this time, while he wiggled his index and middle finger, curling them slightly in response to her touch, his little finger barely moved.

"Booth," she said. "Look at me." He turned his head and she gazed into his warm brown eyes. "Do you have feeling in your fingers?"

He took a long breath and sat up in bed, propping the pillow up behind him as he looked down at his casted hand. "Well, uh," he stammered. "I've been having this tingling sensation in my fingers, sometimes, especially in my pinky finger. And, now that you point it out, my pinky does feel kind of numb." He looked over at her with a wide-eyed expression, his eyebrows raised as the realization creased his forehead.

"It might be your ulnar nerve," she said, scooting against the sheets to sit up, gently pinching each of his fingers. "Can you feel that?" she asked him as she squeezed his ring finger. He nodded. "And that?" Brennan held his middle finger between her thumb and forefinger and squeezed lightly. Again, he nodded. She squeezed his index finger. "And that?" He nodded. She pulled his hand closer and stroked the top of his little finger, then looked up at him.

"It's numb," he said. "I can't feel that." She scraped the fingertip of his pinky with the point of her fingernail. He frowned and shook his head. "Nope, it's just numb." She squeezed it again. "Nothing," he sighed sadly.

"I know your range of motion is limited due to the cast," she said, "but can you try to contract the muscles of your palm, as if you were forming a fist?" He did so, but his little finger hardly moved at all, shifting only slightly by the action of the other fingers.

Booth gulped. "Is it permanent?" he asked, his voice suddenly small and tight. "Can it be treated?"

Brennan narrowed her eyes as she thought about it. "There is a condition called ulnar nerve palsy," she explained. "There's a nerve that runs from your elbow down into your hand, through the muscular tissue adjacent to the ulna bone. That nerve controls feeling and articulation of your digitus minimus manus."

Booth's brow knit at her use of scientific terminology. "You mean my pinky?"

"Yes," she said with a faint smile as she recognized yet another instance when her partner, who more often than not claimed complete ignorance of 'squinty' verbiage and 'sciency' concepts, clearly knew what she had meant. "That nerve runs through your palm like this," she said, tracing its path with her index finger across her own right palm. "Considering that you suffered a traumatic compound fracture of your ulna and radius, there's a chance you might have injured the nerve, though I would have guessed that the orthopedic surgeon who set the fractures would have noted that at the time. More likely, in my opinion, the severity of your injury caused you to have some residual inflammation in the soft tissues of your forearm that are putting pressure on the nerve, which would in turn cause tingling or numbness."

"So it should go away?" he asked hopefully. "Right?"

"I can't say for sure," she said with a grimace. "I seem to recall an article I read a few years ago about the correlation between high energy, widely-displaced fractures of the distal radius and ulnar nerve palsy. I'd have to go pull the article, but based on what you've told me of the circumstances of your injury, I'd say they qualify as high energy, widely-displaced fractures." She looked down and saw him clenching and unclenching his left fist anxiously. "Booth, you need to go to see your orthopedic surgeon. He'll be able to do x-rays, check the progress of your healing, and will probably administer a cortisone injection which, if the issue is in fact muscular inflammation, would help reduce your symptoms."

"Okay," he agreed with a pout. "I hate going to the doctor."

"I know you do, Booth," she said. "But wouldn't you rather try to get this issue resolved as soon as possible? The longer you wait, the harder it might be to address."

He shrugged. "You're right," he said. "It was just kinda tingly yesterday, though. It hasn't been numb like this before."

"I would consider that a positive sign," Brennan said. "If you had suffered trauma to the nerve itself, either from the fracture or as a result of the surgical intervention, you would have felt the numbness long before now." Booth narrowed his eyes and nodded. "Don't worry, Booth—alright? But you should call to see if you can get an appointment with your surgeon this afternoon."

"What time does Wendell's flight come in?" he asked.

Brennan looked over at Booth's casted hand again. "And you need to start wearing your sling again, Booth," she said with a healthy measure of chastisement in her voice. "Your dislocated shoulder seems to be healing well, so there's no reason to think that wearing the sling would impair later shoulder function. But keeping that injured arm somewhat elevated will help reduce or prevent further worsening of the inflammation."

"I hate the sling," Booth grumbled.

"Don't whine," she said. "Do you want to get better?"

"Yes," he said, a smile breaking across his face.

"Then be a good boy and wear your damn sling," she said with a grin, leaning over and kissing him on the cheek next to his ear.

"Do I have to wear it to bed?" he asked with a snicker.

"No," Brennan replied. "I'll give you special dispensation to take it off in bed." She kissed him again, letting her lips linger on the stubbled skin of his jaw as she laughed softly. Pulling away, she added, "But you should wear the sling during the day, while we're working, and when we're moving around the base."

"Even while driving?" he asked, his eyebrows raised expectantly.

"Even then," she said. Rolling her eyes at hearing him sigh, she said, "You're a very intelligent man, Booth. I'm quite sure you can figure out how to shift gears on an automatic transmission vehicle using only your left hand."

"Fine," he grumbled, pouting his lips again before breaking into a goofy, lopsided grin.

"Fine," Brennan replied, leaning in once more to kiss his jaw when Booth turned his head and caught her lips with his. Their mouths opened to one another and their eager tongues tangled briefly in a short but passionate kiss. "_Mmmmm_," she murmured as she reluctantly pulled away, sure in that moment that she would never, ever tire of kissing him.

"So," Booth said with a grin. "What time does Wendell's flight get in again?" He glanced at his watch. "I've gotta print out Angela's sketch and then take that file on the female remains to the MPs first thing this morning."

Brennan squeezed his bicep and shrugged. "Does that mean we don't have time to—?" She arched an eyebrow and gave him a suggestive half-smile, the mere sight of which made him hard every time she did it.

"I was right," he chuckled. "You _are_ insatiable," he said huskily as he threw off the sheet and rolled her onto her back with a quiet grunt as he straddled her.

"Is that a complaint?" she asked.

"Definitely not."

* * *

><p>The pair stood by a window in the Bagram Airfield Passenger Terminal as they watched the charter flight from Dubai (via Kandahar) taxi across the tarmac and unload its passengers. Several minutes passed while pallets of freight and passenger luggage were hauled out of the aircraft's cargo compartment, and Booth watched with silent amusement as Brennan stood, shuffling her feet and fidgeting, as they waited for their passenger to appear in the terminal.<p>

Booth saw a smile break across her face as Wendell Bray entered the terminal. In the past, she would never have admitted having an emotional attachment to any of her interns, but the way her face lit up at seeing the scruffy-cheeked, fair-haired, blue-eyed young man left absolutely no doubt in Booth's mind that she was happy to see him, and that—while she would probably never admit it to Wendell—she had missed him.

"Dr. Brennan!" Wendell called out as he made his way through the crowd of soldiers and airmen who filled the cramped terminal.

The young man dropped his duffel bag and accepted a hug from Brennan, his eyes wide with surprise as she patted his back awkwardly. Booth smirked at the warm if not somewhat awkward display, holding back before stepping forward as his partner moved aside. He embraced Wendell with his left arm, an irrepressible grin on his face as Brennan's twinkling gray eyes met his.

"Booth!" Wendell said, clapping him on the back before taking a step back. "You look great, Booth—except for the arm, obviously."

Booth raised his casted arm the inch or two the sling allowed and shrugged. "Hey," he said. "It's not like it's the first time you've seen me in a cast, right?"

"True," Wendell replied with a wink. "So," he said, turning to Brennan with an open-mouthed grin. "I made it."

"Well, obviously," she said. Booth winced at the awkwardness of the exchange, remembering what his partner had told him a little while earlier about how she wasn't any good with hellos or goodbyes. "You must be fatigued from your journey," she observed. "If you're hungry, we can get lunch at the DFAC and then Booth can show you to your living quarters. Then, if you're up to it, Booth can pick you up mid-afternoon and bring you by our makeshift lab that he's taken to calling the 'Jeffersonian East.'"

Wendell smiled at the term. "Yeah, I've been on airplanes and in airports of one kind or another for the better part of the last thirty-six hours," he said. "A hot lunch sounds great."

"Come on, then," Booth said, scratching the back of his head before gesturing for Brennan and Wendell to follow him.

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><p>Booth opened the door to the hangar and gestured for Wendell to enter.<p>

"This is where they've put you guys?" the young anthropologist asked, arching his eyebrow as he walked past stacks of coffins and scores of crates and boxes marked for shipping. A young woman in fatigues stood at a table ironing an American flag and looked up at the pair as they walked by, nodding to Booth deferentially as he passed.

"That half of the building houses the 54th Quartermaster Company," Booth explained, his voice darkening as his eyes surveyed with sadness the 54th's work area. "They're mortuary affairs specialists, charged with preparing the remains of service personnel so they can be sent home."

Wendell's eyes narrowed as he heard the shift in Booth's tone of voice. "Are you okay, man?" he asked, his voice heavy with concern.

Booth stopped walking and turned around, his left hand on his hip as he looked into Wendell's bright blue eyes. "This is the deal, okay?" he began, swallowing hard as he gathered his thoughts. "I was in a Special Forces unit, right? Green Berets. A twelve-man detachment—ten NCOs like me, two officers. We were on a mission in Marjeh, down in the south. I was the advanced recon unit, on the ground, observing the target, a suspected Taliban insurgent leader, from a nearby building. The other eleven guys were coming in on helicopters. They were approaching the target location, a local café, when I heard an explosion, a crashing sound in the distance, and one of the helicopters that I'd been talking to became non-responsive to my radio call. A couple seconds later, I heard the pilot issue a mayday." Wendell saw Booth's eyes glaze over a little as his gaze seemed to focus off in the distance. "I heard more explosions and then a terrible crash immediately behind me."

"What happened?" Wendell asked tentatively as he saw the drawn expression on his friend's normally jovial face.

"Everything went black," Booth said, snapping his fingers for emphasis. "One of the helos crashed into the building I was in, and the building partially collapsed. That's how I got all banged up," he said, pointing to the still-red gash over his eyebrow and demonstratively waggling his casted arm in its sling. "The other helo crashed right into the building across the street—the café—and it completely collapsed, killing everybody inside."

"And the helicopters?"

"Everyone," Booth said quietly. "All of them—gone. The other eleven guys in my unit, plus the ten aircrew. Twenty-one in all." He closed his eyes and shook his head as if jettisoning away a memory. "I was the only one that survived."

For several moments, Wendell stood there numbly, unsure of what to say.

"I'm sorry, man," he said quietly. "I'm really sorry."

"So," Booth continued. "Back there are the twenty-one guys that were the rest of the operation. Plus the four civilians that were in the café when the second helo crashed into it."

Wendell nodded solemnly. "All Afghans?"

Booth rubbed his hand over the top of his head. "All except one," he said. "When Bones and I started separating—" He exhaled through pursed lips and shook his head. "When we went through what was collected at the scene of the crash, we found an extra set of remains—a Caucasian female with blond hair."

"Western?" the younger man asked.

Booth nodded. "Yeah," he said grimly. "We think she's a war correspondent named Hannah Burley. Based on what the MPs told me this morning, she's been missing for the last seven days. I took Bones' preliminary report and the sketch that Angela did over to the MPs this morning, and they confirmed the findings are consistent with Burley. They've requested dental records, and once we get those we'll be able to confirm identity and help ship her home."

Wendell scratched his stubbled chin, knowing without Booth having to say so that his job was to help his friend do for his fallen comrades what he and Brennan appeared to have been able to do for the dead journalist: to give them names and send them home to their families.

Booth glanced over his shoulder at Brennan who stood over one of the steel tables, holding a mandible under a magnifying lamp. "I'm glad you're here, Wendell," he said, placing his hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Seriously. It means a lot to have you here—to both of us."

Wendell's eye twitched at the added remark. He thought about the brief phone conversation he had with Angela during his layover in Dubai:

"_So you think Booth and Dr. Brennan are together now?" he asked her, rubbing his travel-bleary eyes as he was certain he had misheard her._

"_I can't be sure," Angela said. "But I've never heard her sound so—well, so happy. She sounded almost cheerful when I talked to her. And, with her being in Afghanistan, dragged away from her dig in Maluku, spending ten or twelve hours a day separating the charred remains of twenty-one of Booth's comrades from six thousand-odd pounds of twisted, torn steel. I don't know, Wendell, but—I can't put my finger on it, but she's happier than I'd have expected to hear her sound under the circumstances."_

Forcing a smile, Booth clapped Wendell on the back. "Ready to do this thing?"

"Yeah, man," Wendell replied with a solemn nod. "Let's do it."

Brennan glanced up as she sensed she was no longer alone, and she yanked the earbuds out of her ears. "Hi, Booth," she said, brushing her fingers over her partner's hand as he walked past her to the other end of the table where a file box lay. "Hello, Mr. Bray. Feeling a bit better after a shower and a nap?"

"Yes, I do, thanks," he said with a faint smile as he noted the brief but tender gesture.

"Booth," she said softly, nodding in the direction of the box. "An airman came by about an hour ago with this—said you'd requested it."

"Right." Booth looked down at the box, which was labeled _Army Human Resources Command CONFIDENTIAL._ "Yeah," he whispered, tearing away the strip of packaging tape that secured the lid before opening the box. Inside were twenty-one file folders—one for each of the men in Operational Detachment Alpha 3623 and the ten Special Operations Aviation Regiment aircrew.

"Yeah," he said again, his voice grim and his face long with sadness. He reached in and pulled out the first file: _1SG Parnell, Kellen John._

"Oh, Lord," he whispered, his nostrils flaring as he tried to hold back the tears he felt burning in his eyes. _Turn to me and have mercy on me, _he prayed silently. _Grant your strength to your servant and save the son of your maidservant._

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><p><strong>AN****:** _So, Wendell's here. But Booth's still struggling quite a bit in recovering from the affects of crash, physically and otherwise. He and Brennan seem solid, and she's trying to help him as best she can, but is she up to the task? Now that the mystery blonde is now, apparently, identified, and the task has moved on to identifying Booth's comrades, how will he manage? And will he be able to learn what really happened that day in Marjeh?_

_I'm sure you want to know. I'd love to tell you, and in fact I really, really want to tell you. I'm dying to tell you the rest of this story. _

_Please, tell me what you think of this chapter and K2B as a whole so far._

_Press that little review button and do your thing. __Yes, that one—right down there._

_Thanks!_


	11. Spontaneous Recovery

**Killing Two Birds**

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><p><strong>By:<strong> dharmamonkey

**Rated:** M

**Disclaimer:** _Hart Hanson owns _Bones_. But people like me who play in his sandbox give you all those delicious little moments that Hart and friends leave out. In this case, AU do-overs for that gap between Seasons 5 and 6 that wrought so much havoc for our heroes. That's why you read fanfic._

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><p><strong><span>AN:**

1) **Military acronyms/terminology****:** _A reviewer noted that I'm using some acronyms/lingo the meaning of which may not be immediately evident. Here are some you'll want to take note of because they show up in this chapter:_

**ODA or Alpha: **_Operational Detachment-Alpha. A Special Forces company consists of usually six ODAs (Operational Detachments-A) or "A-Teams." The number of ODAs can vary from company to company, with each ODA specializing in an infiltration skill or a particular mission-set (e.g. Military Freefall (HALO), combat diving, Air Assault, mountain warfare, maritime operations, or urban operations)._

**3/160 SOAR: **_Third Battalion, 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment was the unit from which the two ill-fated helicopters came. Based at Hunter Army Airfield at Fort Stewart, Georgia._

2) **Reader**** response****: **_Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed, especially all those first time reviewers and de-lurkers. I'm so thrilled that everyone is enjoying this piece. _**_If you're reading still (eleven chapters in & counting) and you still haven't left a review, please, PLEASE consider doing so._ Remember: **_t__he only "revenue" I get from writing fanfic is the psychic revenue I get from reader reviews. So, please, throw me a bone, will ya? _

_Alright, without further ado, let's go back to Bagram._

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><p><strong>Chapter 11: Spontaneous Recovery<strong>

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><p>Brennan was standing next to her intern when both saw Booth blanch as he pulled the first of the twenty-one thick manila folders out of the file box sent by the U.S. Army Human Resources Command.<p>

She knew her partner's response was not triggered by surprise, because they had discussed in some detail several days earlier the information they would need in order to identify the individual casualties among the soldiers of Alpha 3623 and the aircrew of the 3/160 SOAR. She needed dental records (which had arrived by courier from Ft. Bragg the day before) in order to identify skulls to persons—a task which Brennan, particularly now that she had the assistance of a second trained anthropologist, was confident could be completed very quickly. But because they wanted to send these men home as complete as possible, the more difficult task would be to ensure that the traumatically disarticulated remains could be reassembled and their parts matched. To do this, they would then need information that would enable them to match a skeleton's height, age, race, occupational markers and prior injuries to the individuals.

Brennan frowned and turned briefly to Wendell, whose blue eyes softened sympathetically and who jerked his chin in Booth's direction, encouraging his mentor to go to him.

She walked towards him, noting the tension in his shoulders as she approached. "Booth," she whispered, curling her slender fingers around his hand as she silently pressed him to set the file down on the table. She brought her right hand to the top of his back and rubbed her palm over the strong curve of his shoulders. "I know this is difficult, Booth," she said as he turned to face her. "I can't imagine how hard this is for you. If you need to take some time or—"

"No," he replied, shaking his head firmly. "No," he said again, his teeth nearly gritted as his jaw hardened. He swallowed and pursed his lips, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "I have to do this for my guys. I couldn't bring them home alive, you know. So—so at least I can help you and Wendell do this and…"

"Booth—" She squeezed his hand.

"We gotta send these guys home whole," Booth said, his voice cracking. "As best we can." He blinked and quickly wiped away a fallen tear from his cheek. He took a deep breath, trying to center himself as he clasped Brennan's fingers in his palm, her thumb under his. "Bones, you've got to tell me what I can do to help. What information do you need me to—?" He pulled his hand away from Brennan's as he drummed his fingers on the cover of Parnell's file.

"Booth," Brennan said quietly, her jaw firm as her voice wavered slightly. "You don't have to do this right now."

"I _do_," he told her. "I have to do this, don't you see?" He took another deep breath and pointed to the box. A few seconds passed as he stared at the box and the tops of the folders within. "These files have all the basic demographic stuff plus height, weight, etc. These service records will identify everywhere these guys have been, what schools they went to, bases they were stationed at, places they were deployed, any significant injuries they suffered while in the service." He stopped, holding the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger as the once again tried to focus. "What information do you need right now to get started on—you know, to get started identifying my guys?"

Brennan glanced over to Wendell, who held his lips together firmly as he watched his friend and hockey teammate, the strongest, bravest, most squared-away guy he had ever known, open the first file with a noticeable tremble. Wendell narrowed one eye then nodded as he took a step closer.

"Hey Booth," he said. "I think what might help would be a photograph of each of them, the way we do back at the lab, and maybe a spreadsheet listing their names with height, weight, age and race." He arched an eyebrow as he looked for signal from Brennan. She nodded for him to continue. "That way we can put together a short list of probables for each set of remains, and take it from there."

"The female remains are already separated out," Brennan noted. "The other remains recovered from the café are clearly labeled. We know the three Afghans are in that set of remains. They can be quickly separated out from the rest and set aside pending instructions on what to do with them."

She didn't say so, but her priority—both personally and professionally—was to conclude her work with Booth's comrades. The Afghans would have to wait.

"Okay," Booth said softly, sighing sadly as he glanced over at the stacks of plastic crates—twenty-five in all—that contained the remains of Kellen Parnell and twenty-four other people. "I can do that." He rubbed his eyes with his free hand and moved one of the stools in front of the box of files. "I'll go ahead and get started."

Brennan turned to Wendell and said quietly, "I would like you to begin defleshing the bones, keeping them organized in the same bins they are now, please. Considering we may need to later extract DNA material from the bones, we will boil them in a sodium carbonate solution. I've started setting up the material and equipment over there—" She pointed to an area along the far wall, on the opposite side of their half of the hangar from where Booth was sitting. Wendell glanced over at Booth, who sat hunched over a file with headphones in his ears, reading the contents with a blank expression on his face. Although the intern didn't ask, she explained, "I'm going to finalize my report on the female remains so that Booth has it for the meeting he has tomorrow morning with the MPs and a representative from NBC News."

"Sure thing, Dr. Brennan," Wendell said as he pulled the vinyl apron over his head and tied it behind his waist. "I'm glad you were able to be here for Booth," he said. "I feel very bad for him."

"Booth is an extremely resilient man," she said. "But this is the most melancholy I have ever seen him. It's almost as if, while we were working to separate the remains from the fuselage and other crash debris, the reality of the situation hadn't quite dawned on him, metaphorically speaking. And then, when we worked on the female remains, it was as if it was a welcome distraction."

Wendell nodded, retrieving a pair of latex gloves from the box on the table. "Now there's no way for him to avoid dealing with it," he said quietly as he snapped them on. "He'll get through, though, Dr. Brennan." He paused, then added, "Your friendship and support means the world to him."

"Yes," she replied vaguely. "The bones, Mr. Bray…"

"Yes, Dr. Brennan," the young man replied quickly, pointing to his destination on the far side of the hangar as he turned to walk away.

"Oh, Booth," she whispered as she stood and watched him from a distance for a minute or two.

* * *

><p>Booth could smell the flesh being boiled from the bones and, unable to keep the scent from wafting into his nose and worming its way into his thoughts, he turned up the volume on his iPod with the hope that the louder the music was, the less his mind would focus on the smell. It was not the first time he had smelled flesh being boiled off of bones, but this time was different. He felt conflicted—on the one hand, a part of him battled rolling waves of nausea at the idea that it was his comrades whose burned, broken bodies were being boiled in washing soda, but yet also, a part of him took heart that he, Bones and Wendell were finally going to be able to get to the business of doing for his brothers the one final kindness they deserved. It was with this heartening thought and his spirits further buttressed somewhat by the loud, soaring guitar solos of Pink Floyd's <em>Momentary Lapse of Reason <em>that Booth slowly began to work his way through his comrades' service records.

"_Don't diss my Floyd," Booth snapped at Sergeant First Class Lukas, who stood in front of him, swiping his thumb across the screen of the iPod with a snicker as he surveyed Booth's musical collection. "Floyd's classic, dude. Fucking classic." _

_Staff Sergeant Swann, who sat on his bunk a few feet away, looked up at the pair and snorted, all the while bopping his head back and forth as the tinny treble of a voice tweeted out of his headphones, each line of verse punctuated by a throbbing, undulating bass rhythm. _

_Hearing Swann's response, Booth swiveled his head and asked, "What is that crap?" He pointed to the MP3 player in Swann's hand. _

_Knowing Booth was just busting his balls in pursuit of amusement, Swann knit his brows and shook his head with a lazy grin. "Eminem, Sarge," he replied loudly. "You've heard of Eminem, right, Sarge?"_

_Booth chuckled. "Yeah, I've heard of Eminem, Swann," he grinned. "You might be too young to remember this, kid, but about a year after that song of his, 'Lose Yourself,' came out, the Red Sox played it in their locker room before each of the games they played against the Yankees in the ALCS, when they came from behind after losing the first three games of the series to beat the Yankees and go to the World Series. They used that song to amp themselves up for the coming game. And it worked. Arguably, the most amazing comeback in the history of baseball, and Eminem had a tiny hand in it." Seeing Swann's eyebrows flash upward, he laughed. "That's right, kid. I'm a constant surprise. Don't ever forget it."_

"_I won't, Sarge," he said with a smirk, returning his attention to the glossy motorcycle magazine he was reading._

Booth typed the information into the spreadsheet he had open on the Army-issue laptop he'd requisitioned the other day:

SSG | SWANN, MICHAEL SETH | 5/12/1988 | White | Dubuque, IA | 5'11'' | 180#

"Four tours," he whispered as he turned the pages of the file. "Four fuckin' tours." Swann, at twenty-two years old, had endured two year-long tours in Iraq and was in the middle of his second tour in Afghanistan. Booth shook his head and scratched his chin, unable to rid from his mind the cascading series of images of the pleasant, apple-faced kid with the ash-brown hair who always kept it shorn in a severe high-and-tight, which he joked made him more 'high speed, low drag' than the rest of the guys in the detachment. His service record showed he had been awarded the Purple Heart twice: the first one after being peppered by flying shrapnel in an IED attack in Ramadi on his first tour in Iraq, and the second after being shot in the thigh during a firefight on his previous tour in Afghanistan. Booth remembered seeing the scars on Swann's back the first time they played 'shirts and skins' football, a couple of days after they arrived in Helmand Province.

_The left side of Swann's back looked as if it were spattered with speckles of light brown paint, as if flung from the end of a paintbrush. "Nice tats," Booth said to him as they went into the huddle. Swann looked up and shot him puzzled look. "The backpiece," Booth clarified. He nodded with a smile as he caught Booth's meaning._

"_Yours too," he replied, pointing with a jerk of his chin to the starburst-shaped scar over Booth's right pec. "Used up one of your nine lives on that one, I guess," he said. Booth glanced down at the scar and nodded silently._

"Booth," Brennan said, approaching him from behind. She could hear the music pulsing out of his earphones and knew he probably couldn't hear her. She reached around and put her hand on the corner of the file, careful not to take him by surprise by touching him without warning.

He looked up and tugged the headphones out of his ears. "Hey," he whispered, a faint smile flashing across his lips as he closed the file. He glanced at his watch. "Oh. We should get dinner, huh?"

Brennan glanced over and saw Wendell packing things up for the night, his back turned to them. She leaned over and kissed Booth quickly on the cheek. "Yes," she said. "We've all had a long day. Let's all have dinner and, as you say, call it a night."

He looked over at the young intern, who seemed to be organizing his materials as if deliberately keeping back turned, and then glanced to the other side of the hangar, where it appeared the mortuary team from the 54th Quartermaster Company had already closed up shop for the day. "Okay," he replied with a grin, knowing they had a fleeting moment of privacy between them. He turned her head gently and covered her lips with his as he felt her tongue skate across his teeth and tangle briefly with his own. "Mmmm," he murmured as they pulled apart. "Do you have the report done?" he asked, glancing once more at Wendell, who was swiftly rolling up an extension cord by wrapping it around his hand and elbow.

"Of course," she said, sliding it across the table.

"Thanks," he said, sliding off the stool and placing Swann's file in the box with the rest. He took one last, lingering look at the twenty-one plump folders before putting the lid back on and patting it. "Ready?"

"Yes," she said. She called out to the young man on the other side of the hangar. "Mr. Bray?"

"Coming!" he called back, a smile on his lips as he saw how close Booth and Brennan were standing together. "One second…"

* * *

><p>Brennan stood next to her closet in panties and a tank top, draping her khaki cargo pants over a hanger, unable to resist smiling at the sight of Booth's ACU jacket and trousers hanging there next to her own clothes. His metaphorical fingerprints seemed everywhere in the modest little dormitory room she called home: his toothbrush, razor and shaving cream next to the sink, his Irish Spring bodywash in the corner of the shower next to her own cucumbermint shower gel, his boots at the foot of her bed, his green felt beret on the corner of the desk, and his crumpled, sweat-stained camouflage patrol cap on top of the TV set. She could smell him as she stood there in front of her closet, his scent clinging to his clothes—and, if she were perfectly honest, to hers—even after washing. Though she had never felt that way before with any other man—and while she would have expected to be irritated at having someone else's things intermingled with her own—she found she actually enjoyed the way his presence seemed to have worked its way into her daily routine.

"Booth," she called over to him. He sat cross-legged on her bed in a pair of gray Army sweats and a faded black "Army of One" T-shirt.

"Yeah?" he replied, looking away from the football game that ESPN SportsCenter was rehashing for the umpteenth time. "What's up?" he asked, smiling at the sight of her long, creamy legs clad in nothing but black cotton panties.

Brennan walked over to the bed and climbed up, taking her place next to him. He reached for the remote and turned off the TV with a sharp _click_. "You didn't have to do that," she said.

"Meh," he said with a wave of his casted hand. "It just keeps cycling through the same crap anyway. What's up?" He turned and kissed her forehead as he snaked his arm around her shoulder.

"I was thinking about this morning," she said.

"Yeah," Booth laughed. "That _was _nice, wasn't it?" he said with a suggestive waggle of his eyebrows and a lopsided grin.

"It was," she agreed. "But…" She hesitated. "Well, before that, when I woke up, you were laying there thinking. You seemed preoccupied, Booth, worried about something." She saw his eyes swivel to the side to avoid her glance. "What were you thinking about?"

He sighed. "Why do I have the feeling you're not going to let this go?" he asked.

"Because you know I care about you," she said, the words having left her mouth before she realized she was going to say them. She placed her hand over his and he splayed his fingers a little, allowing her to thread her fingers between his. "Because I'm a little concerned about you, Booth." She nuzzled against his round, muscular shoulder as she stroked her thumb over his. "I want to help you, but if I don't know what's wrong, I can't help."

She felt him shift his posture a little and heard him swallow. He took a breath and held it as he collected his thoughts.

"Booth—"

"It's these memories," he said quietly. "When I first woke up in the hospital, you know, after the accident, I couldn't remember what had happened that landed me there in the first place." He felt his pulse quicken as he recalled the feeling of terror he felt in those first few minutes after the anesthesia wore off and he felt himself emerge from the fog in a room, surrounded by total silence except for the beep of the heart monitor and the faint, almost inaudible drip of the IV. "In fact, I had trouble remembering a lot of things—not just about that last mission or the crash, but things that had happened in the couple of weeks or months before that."

Brennan nodded but did not say anything as she listened, squeezing his hand gently as if to encourage him to continue.

"I couldn't remember a lot of things that happened in the week or two or three before the crash. Some of them I still can't remember. And it's kind of freaking me out a bit here, Bones."

"Sounds like you have retrograde amnesia, Booth," she said. "It's not uncommon after a head injury or other kind of traumatic accident."

He pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek as he thought about it. "But now," he continued, "those memories are all coming back, you know, in dribs and drabs, one at a time, but not in any particular order and it's kind of weird. Sometimes they come back in a big rush, like I'm drinking from a firehose, and I'm trying to figure it all out, you know, how they fit together." He bit his lip. "I'm sure that didn't make any sense at all, Bones, but…"

"No," she insisted. "It does make sense. I believe you're experiencing what's called 'spontaneous recovery.' The memories that you were unable to recall as a result of the retrograde amnesia will often come back to you spontaneously, sometimes even without prompting, in a manner that is unpredictable and poorly understood."

"I thought you didn't like psychology," he quipped.

"I don't," Brennan said, slapping him playfully on the arm. "But this isn't psychology," she said. "It's neuroscience, which is a hard science, Booth. In all seriousness, it does sound like you suffered some retrograde amnesia as a result of the head injury, and perhaps—considering your prior experiences with anesthesia—even aggravated by the anesthesia you were administered when your arm fractures were surgically set. And now you're experiencing spontaneous recovery of those lost memories."

"I guess," he said with a frown. "So, I've got all these memories and images that come to me, sometimes kind of randomly, almost all of them involving my guys, you know—the guys in my unit."

"I'm sorry, Booth," she whispered. "I really am."

He pulled her close and buried his nose in her silky hair. "Thanks," he said. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

Brennan smiled at feeling his warm breath on her scalp. "I'm glad that I can be here for you, Booth." She unthreaded her fingers from his, slid her hand under his shirt and placed her fingers over his navel. "With you," she added. "I don't know what I would have done if I had lost you."

Booth brushed his lips across her cheekbone. "I love you, Bones," he whispered as he kissed her lightly.

"I love you, too, Booth," she whispered back, her heart racing as the words hung in the air between them for several long moments.

"Do you?" he asked, his eyebrows raised expectantly.

"Yes," she said as she felt an unexplainable warmth spread through her chest. "Yes, I guess I do."

A broad grin broke across Booth's face.

* * *

><p><strong>AN****:** _Yeah, alright, that's not an evil cliffy—it's more like a fluffy cliffy, one that leaves you feeling all gooey and dying for more._

_You want more? I sure want to give you more. In fact, I'm dying to tell you the rest of this story. _

_I know there are a lot of lurkers out there—people who have put this story on alert and, based on the hits I see, are reading each and every update. _

_**Please, please—don't read and run! **__Tell me what you think._

_I've never written a piece like this before. Even with the huge response, I'm really wanting to know what parts are working well for you. Are there scenes or images that are really powerful for you? Are there ones that fall flat? I want to know._

_So, please, press that little review button and do your thing._

_Thanks!_


	12. The Razor's Edge

**Killing Two Birds**

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><p><strong>By:<strong> dharmamonkey  
><strong>Rated:<strong> M

**Disclaimer:** _Hart Hanson owns _Bones_. But people like me who play in his sandbox give you all those delicious little moments that Hart and friends leave out. In this case, AU do-overs for that gap between Seasons 5 and 6 that wrought so much havoc for our heroes. That's why you read fanfic._

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><p><strong><span>AN:**

1) **Military acronyms/terminology:** _A reviewer noted that I'm using some acronyms/lingo the meaning of which may not be immediately evident. Here are some you'll want to take note of because they show up in this chapter:_

ACUs: _Army Combat Uniform a/k/a fatigues._

Helos: _Helicopters_

Air assault: _A helicopter-borne assault, where the troops rappel out of a hovering helicopter, as opposed to an assault by paratroopers jumping out of cargo planes._

Embed: _An "embed" is an arrangement whereby a journalist is embedded in a combat unit, accompanying them on day-to-day operations for the purpose of reporting on their non-classified activities. _

2) **Reader response:** _Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed, especially all those first time reviewers and de-lurkers. I'm so thrilled that everyone is enjoying this piece. If you've read this far and you still haven't left a review, please, PLEASE consider doing so. Remember: the only "revenue" I get from writing fanfic is the psychic revenue I get from reader reviews. So, please, throw me a bone, will ya?_

_Alright, without further ado, let's go back to Bagram._

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><p><strong>Chapter 12: The Razor's Edge<strong>

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><p>Booth stood in front of the mirror in the men's room and held his green felt beret in his hand as he fidgeted with his uniform. He glanced at his watch—ten minutes to ten—and mentally patted himself on the back for dropping Brennan and Wendell off at the hangar early that morning so he could get a haircut before the meeting. He asked the barber to make it extra-short on the back and sides this time, so he could look just a bit more squared-away than he actually felt. He'd used Brennan's iron that morning to get the wrinkles out of his ACUs, and had even taken a brush to his tan combat boots, even though this pair was basically brand-new, since his prior pair—perfectly broken in, dusty and scuffed up from use—had been thrown out by the medical battalion orderlies after being soaked through with blood after the crash. He took a deep breath, smoothed the front of his ACU jacket with his hand and nodded at the figure in the mirror. <em>Lookin' good, soldier. Lookin' good.<em>

He entered the conference room with a vague smile on his face.

"Sergeant Major," a low, Midwestern voice greeted him the moment he walked through the door. Booth had hardly had a chance to scan the room when he found himself staring into the dark green eyes of Major Thompson from the Military Police Corps.

"Sir," Booth said, unable to salute as he glanced awkwardly at his casted right arm, which—per Brennan's instructions—hung in a sling. "I'm sorry, sir."

"It's no problem, Sergeant Major," the officer said. "Please"—he gestured towards the conference room table—"I think we're ready to begin."

"Thank you, sir," Booth said with a curt nod.

"Good to see you again, Sergeant Major," Colonel Wilkins said. Booth blinked at seeing the stern officer from the 3rd Special Forces Group, doing his best to bite back a grin as he thought of how his partner had really laid into the intimidating man before him—proof positive that his Bones didn't intimidate, period.

"Likewise, sir," Booth replied deferentially.

A civilian in khakis and a pressed light blue shirt stepped forward. "Sergeant Major Booth, I'm Steve Marx, NBC News."

"Pleasure to meet you, sir," Booth replied. "I'd shake your hand, but—"

"Not a problem," Marx said with a faint smile. "101st, I see." He gestured towards the Screaming Eagles patch on Booth's right arm, just above the sling. "You were in Iraq in '91?"

"Yes," Booth said. "I was." His eyes narrowed as he watched a flicker behind Marx's eyes, and he knew there was no need to explain to him what it meant to participate in a helicopter assault behind enemy lines, or to explain the tactical importance of his unit's role in securing the low-water crossings over the Euphrates. The look in Marx's eyes told Booth that he knew all these things, and more, and in that moment, Booth felt a bit more comfortable dealing with him.

"Mr. Marx is the Chief Foreign Correspondent for NBC News," Major Thompson said.

"I've been watching your reports for years, Mr. Marx," Booth said with a smile. "It's an honor to meet you."

A bit perturbed by the apparent rapport between the soldier and the journalist, Thompson shot Booth an icy glare before he turned to Marx. "Please, everyone, take a seat."

"Let me begin," Thompson said sternly as the three took their seats, "with what we know. There was an incident twelve days ago in Marjeh, in Helmand Province, in southern—"

"I know where Marjeh is, Major," Marx said tersely.

Thompson blinked, then cleared his throat and continued. "In that incident, two U.S. Army MH-47E Chinook helicopters en route to carry out a classified operation collided in midair and crashed."

Booth listened quietly, attempting to maintain a stony gaze as he tried to hold back the flood of images, sounds, smells and sensations. _Mayday, mayday, mayday. _He drummed his fingers on his thigh as his leg bounced up and down, trying to channel his nervous energy into something other than a facial expression.

"Twenty-one U.S. Army personnel were killed in the crash," the major said evenly. "Eleven members of the 3rd Special Forces Group, Operational Detachment Alpha 3623, based at Fort Bragg, and ten members of the 3rd Battalion, 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment, based at Fort Stewart. The only surviving participant in this operation is the Sergeant Major here, who was positioned on the ground in a reconnaissance role at the time of the crash."

Marx looked at Booth and narrowed his eyes, pursing his lips sympathetically before turning back to the major with a nod.

"The damaged aircraft crashed to the ground, falling on two buildings—one, a teahouse in which three local Afghan men were gathered, and the second, a structure across the street in which Sergeant Major Booth was positioned. Both buildings collapsed. Force of the collision and subsequent aircraft malfunction caused the wreckage of each aircraft to be intermingled with the debris from the buildings onto which they crashed, so the U.S. Army removed the wreckage along with all human remains found at the scene."

Booth felt Marx looking at him but did not return eye contact, instead choosing to focus his gaze on the dry-erase board mounted on the conference room wall behind Major Thompson.

"The remains and aircraft were taken here, to Bagram, where it became clear that the violence of the midair collision and the explosions that resulted had caused very severe damage to the servicemen's remains." Booth felt a wave of nausea surge through his gut, but he bit the inside of his lip and continued to look straight ahead. "When the aircraft crashed to the ground, the wreckage burned quite severely—most likely due to the combined effects of the aircraft fuel and the munitions that each of the aircraft were carrying at the time of the accident. The decision was made to enlist the assistance of an outside forensic anthropologist to facilitate the prompt and immediate disposition of the remains."

Booth cringed at the major's language. _To facilitate the prompt and immediate disposition of the remains? _He swallowed and held his jaw tight, nibbling the inside of his lip as he felt anger bubbling up in his chest. _These are real people, you back office motherfucker, _he thought_. My people. These are my guys, and my commanding officers. They aren't just 'remains.' _He thought about his partner, who used clinical language to describe her process but who he knew cared deeply about the people—the actual human beings—of which the so-called remains were the only lasting physical remnant.

The major turned to Booth. "The Sergeant Major here has been overseeing the work of the forensic anthropologist."

"Yes, sir," Booth confirmed, punctuating his statement with a sigh. The officer motioned for Booth to speak.

He glanced down at the file folder in front of him, then over to Marx who sat across from him, to the major, and then back to the file folder. He opened the folder, his jaw softening somewhat at seeing Brennan's signature and her neat, precise, almost draftsman-like printing on the bottom of the typewritten report.

He took a deep breath, cleared his throat and, meeting Marx's glance briefly before looking away again, began to speak. "As I was assisting Dr. Brennan in separating the, _umm,_ human remains from the other material recovered from the scene, we found some remains that were inconsistent with what we had previously understood to be the case—namely, that all of the deceased were male. Dr. Brennan was able to assemble an almost complete skeleton belonging to a Caucasian female, age twenty-nine to thirty-five, with wavy blond hair." Booth pulled a couple of pieces of paper from his file. "This is a sample of the hair we recovered," he said, sliding a photograph of the hair, thankfully without the bloodied scalp, across the table to Marx. "And this is a sketch of what Dr. Brennan believes the individual would have looked like, based on a reconstruction of the skull, which was damaged by blunt force trauma, presumably when the teahouse collapsed, since that appears to be where her remains were recovered."

Marx looked at the photo of the wavy, warm-hued blond hair and then at Angela Montenegro's charcoal sketch. "Yeah—that's Hannah," he said. "I brought this." He slid a small black USB drive across the table to Booth. "Her dental records should be on there. Will that enable you to confirm that the body you found was Hannah?"

Booth whisked the USB drive off the table, turning it over in the palm of his hand a couple of times before nodding. "Yes," he replied. "Dr. Brennan can compare the dental records to the x-rays she took of the remains and confirm one way or the other if they belong to the same person."

"Okay," Marx said quietly. "Please do so." Turning to the colonel and the major, he said, "Hannah just rolled off of a six-week embed with the Marines—Regimental Combat Team Seven—about three weeks ago. She told us she was going to stay in the Marjeh area for a couple of more weeks, doing some reports on the civilian-military interaction and reconstruction efforts before moving to her next assignment in Iraq. She filed a report about two weeks ago, which aired a couple of nights ago, but we haven't heard from her since."

"When did you first suspect she was missing?" Booth asked, hearing the shift in his own voice as he slid into FBI mode.

"Sergeant Major," the major said, his tone one of warning.

"I'm sorry, sir," Booth said, his eyes darting to Marx and then away again.

"In civilian life, Sergeant Major Booth is with the FBI," Colonel Wilkins explained, finally breaking his silence. "Sometimes he forgets himself." Booth rolled his jaw from side to side but didn't utter a sound in response.

Marx saw the tension crackle between the two officers and the senior NCO/FBI agent. "Hannah was always extremely independent," he said, "which in a lot of ways was what made her a great foreign correspondent but, from the standpoint of being assigned to war zones and other conflict areas, always put her in a certain amount of danger."

"I'm not sure I understand what you're saying, Mr. Marx," the major said with an arched eyebrow.

"I think he's trying to explain why NBC News didn't immediately freak out when Hannah Burley went off radar for a few days," Booth interjected. Then, catching himself, he quickly added, "Sir." The major shot him a dark look.

"That's right," Marx said. "It wasn't uncommon for her, between embeds, to go off with her translator for a few days, totally incommunicado, and then come back a week or so later with a great story. Drove the management guys in New York absolutely nuts, of course, but at some level, good foreign correspondence work isn't really about playing it safe, is it? Hannah was never afraid to get her hands dirty and walk along that razor's edge. It made her a great reporter. Sounds like it also ultimately became the end of her." Marx looked away and shrugged. "Wouldn't be the first time I've had to radio home that I lost one in the field."

For several long, awkward moments, none of them said anything. Booth closed his folder and dropped the USB drive into his chest pocket.

"I'll have Dr. Brennan check the dentals, Mr. Marx," he said evenly. "Sounds like there's little doubt that the remains we found were those of your reporter, but we will use the dentals to confirm that so you can notify the family and—" Booth paused, thinking of the stacks of coffins on the other side of the aircraft hangar from Brennan's area. "Sir, I am not sure what the protocol is here, but Dr. Brennan will be ready to release the remains to whomever you or Mr. Marx here designates as soon as she checks the dentals and completes her report. I imagine that can be done before the end of the day. The dentals usually don't take long to do."

"Sergeant Major," the major said firmly. "I'll discuss those details with Mr. Marx and inform you and Dr. Brennan accordingly."

"Yes, sir," Booth replied with an obedient nod.

"I think that's all for now, Sergeant Major," Colonel Wilkins said. "Thank you for coming over."

Booth stood up and tucked the file folder under his arm. "Mr. Marx," he said with a nod. "Sirs." The two officers stared at him, unblinkingly. "Thanks."

With that, Booth grabbed his beret and walked out of the room.

* * *

><p>A half-hour later, Booth sat in the crowded lobby of the Bagram Airfield McDonald's sipping a large coffee. <em>This place is like a license to print money, <em>he smiled as he watched a trio of airmen—not one of them probably older than twenty—rush past with their Big Mac Extra Value Meals talking about the blowout on Monday Night Football the night before. One of the airmen caught him watching them as they walked by and shot him a narrow-eyed look. Booth just crinkled his forehead and smiled, drawing another sip of his coffee as he savored the warm, creamy texture and the slightly bitter taste of coffee left sitting on the burner just a bit too long.

"_What the hell is that, Makovsky?" Booth asked, watching the young staff sergeant tear open a Starbucks VIA packet of instant coffee and pour it into his cup._

"_What's it look like, Sarge?" the kid retorted. "It's better than the crap that comes with our MREs."_

"_Where'd you get that?" Booth asked, watching with a predatory grin as Makovsky stirred up his coffee._

"_Got it from one of the jarheads in exchange for a pack of smokes I stole from Swann while he was napping," he answered with a smirk. Swann jerked his head up and shot Makovsky an evil look. "Hey, mofo—you were asleep," Makovsky told him. "You snooze, you lose, baby. That's life in the big city, pal. You aren't in Kansas anymore."_

"_It's Iowa, you stupid motherfucker," Swann snapped. "Not Kansas. And you owe me a pack of smokes, which if I don't get back in the next twenty-four hours, you better watch out the next time you doze off or else you might wake up and find your cleaning kit up your—" _

"_Enough," Booth growled, still fixating on the source of the divine-smelling coffee. "So where'd your jarhead trading post buddy get it?" he pressed Makovsky, wondering exactly how long it had really been since he'd had a good cup of coffee, and pretty certain that it had been since the last time he'd filled up one of those yellow mugs in the upstairs lounge at the Jeffersonian._

"_He said he got it from his girlfriend, who's a reporter or some shit," Makovsky explained. "She gets him all kinds of good shit from the States—shit you can't even get in the PX at Bagram. He has all these Pop-Tarts in kinds of flavors you can't get here. She's got some kind of wicked cool hook-up in Kandahar that sends this shit up to her once a week."_

"_What an asshole," Bastone chimed in from a few feet away where he sat smoking, until that moment silent as he enjoyed yet another round of Booth playing with the kid-sergeants, which he once likened to a cat toying with its favorite ball of string. "He gets the good shit, resupplied weekly, and he's gettin' some from his hot blonde journalist girlfriend. What's it with fuckin' Marines anyway? He must be huge," he said, indicating with his hands how well-endowed he supposed the Marine was. "Or really good with his tongue, because otherwise, I don't see why a smart broad like that would want anything to do with a dumb motherfuckin' Marine."_

"_Well," Booth said, ignoring the last comment. "I could punish you for stealing from another member of the unit." He raised his chin and looked adoringly at the small box of VIA packets sticking out of Makovsky's assault pack. "However, I'm willing to overlook the offense and grant you clemency in consideration of you giving me three of those bad boys."_

"_What?" Makovsky squeaked. "They come in a box of eight—I used one, you take three, and I only have four left." Booth reached over and pulled three of the finger-shaped packets out of the young soldier's pack. "Sarge!"_

"_Hey," Booth said with a toothy grin. "It's just life in the big city, pal." He winked at Swann and tossed him one of the packets. "And don't steal, you worthless numbnut. Otherwise, I may just get you transferred to the Marines so you can hang out with your dumbass, bottom-feeding, jarhead pals down the road there."_

"_Fuck," Makovsky muttered, zipping up his pack and glumly sipping his coffee._

"Sergeant Major Booth?"

Booth looked up from his coffee, blinking away the memory as he saw the smiling face of Steve Marx standing in front of him, tray in hand. "Hi," he said awkwardly, still a bit dazed by the vivid memory. "Please, have a seat."

"Thanks," Marx said. He ran his hand through his medium-length light brown hair as he surveyed Booth's face. "Hey, I want to thank you for the work you've done so far on this thing with Hannah Burley."

"Of course," Booth said with a casual wave of his hand. "No problem. It's what I do."

"In civilian life, you mean?" Marx asked with a quirked eyebrow and a vague smile as Booth shrugged. "You know I looked you up."

"Of course," Booth replied, smiling into his coffee as he drew a long sip. "I'd have done the same thing if I were you."

"I have a question," Marx said, his voice dropping to just barely above a whisper.

Booth raised his cup to his lips again as he studied the correspondent's face. He'd seen it a hundred times on TV, but it was always different, seeing someone in real life and looking into their eyes. "Okay," he said, each syllable slow with caution. "Shoot."

Marx opened up the box and stared at his Quarter Pounder for a moment. "Do you think those helos really collided in midair?" he asked.

A laugh escaped Booth's lips. "You don't pull any punches, do you?" He shook his head, glanced at the tables around him and whispered. "Yes, I do." Marx narrowed his eyes skeptically. "But," Booth said, holding up his coffee cup as he chose his words carefully. "I think something else happened, too. I'm just not sure what, exactly. Or why."

"Huh," the correspondent said as he took a bite out of his burger. "Do you intend to find out?" he asked.

Booth cocked his head to one side and smiled. "I would like to," he said. "But you know I can't—"

Marx held his hand up as if to fill the space left by Booth's unspoken words. "I completely understand," he said vaguely. "Just wanted to make sure I wasn't the only one."

Drawing one last, long sip of his coffee, Booth stood up from the table. "You're not," he said noncommittally. "It was good seeing you again, Mr. Marx. Have a safe trip back to—"

"Karachi," the reporter said with a smile. "Then, tomorrow, Cairo. Then next week—back to Baghdad."

"Yeah," Booth said with a chuckle. "I think I've heard that one before." He put on his green beret, grabbed his empty coffee cup and bade Marx farewell with a quick jerk of his chin.

* * *

><p>"Show me what you found," Brennan said to Wendell, taking her place behind him as she glanced over his shoulder at the X-ray view box.<p>

"Yes, Dr. Brennan," he replied. "Looking at the file provided by NBC and comparing the three fillings in the lower second molars and the truncated dental roots on the upper lateral incisors and canines, along with the way the lower lateral incisor is rotated fifteen degrees, I would say this is a match." He pointed to a pair of fillings shown on the left side of the X-ray film and another on the right, then to the corresponding items on the image displayed on the laptop screen. "I would say with 99% certainty that these remains belong to Hannah Burley."

"Excellent, Mr. Bray," Brennan said. The young man smiled, basking in the rare, fleeting warmth of a compliment from his mentor. "Please go ahead and tell Booth so he can notify the MPs accordingly."

"Yes, Dr. Brennan." Wendell pulled the X-ray films off the view box and put them back into the file folder. He took a breath and glanced over at his friend, who sat twenty feet away, hunched over yet another file folder, apparently engrossed in the contents. "Hey, Booth."

Booth looked up, and Wendell noted the bloodshot glimmer in his red-rimmed eyes as he approached.

"It's her, isn't it?" he asked, wiping the moisture from his eyes with the palm of his hand. With a heavy sigh, he closed the file in front of him and stared at the name on the label: SSG MAKOVSKY, GREGORY GEORGE.

Wendell nodded, handing him the file folder with pursed lips and a silent shrug.

"One down," he said grimly. "Twenty-one more to go."

* * *

><p><strong>AN****:** _Hmm. A bit more flesh on those Hannah bones, so to speak. But why do we care? Well, all I can tell you is that we do, but I can't tell you why yet. Is that mean? Maybe a little_ ::blinks:: **o.O **::shrugs:: _Remember what Booth told Sweets in Episode 100: "It's not what you think." You might've seen enough here to ease some of your worries, but if you're still worried, don't be. Just try to keep an open mind._

_You want more? I sure want to give you more. In fact, I'm dying to tell you the rest of this story. _

_I know there are a lot of lurkers out there—people who have put this story on alert and, based on the hits I see, are reading each and every update. _

_**Please, please—don't read and run. **_

_Tell me what you think. I've never written a piece like this before and, even with the huge response, I'm really wanting to know what parts are working well for you. Are there scenes or images that are really powerful for you? Tell me which ones. I want to know._

_So, please, press that little review button and do your thing._

_Thanks!_


	13. Wild Geese

**Killing Two Birds**

* * *

><p><strong>By:<strong> dharmamonkey  
><strong>Rated:<strong> M  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> _Hart Hanson owns _Bones_. But people like me who play in his sandbox give you all those delicious little moments that Hart and friends leave out. In this case, AU do-overs for that gap between Seasons 5 and 6 that wrought so much havoc for our heroes. That's why you read fanfic._

* * *

><p><strong><span>AN:**

1) **Military acronyms/terminology**: _A reviewer noted that I'm using some acronyms/lingo the meaning of which may not be immediately evident. Here are some you'll want to take note of because they show up in this chapter:_

**MPs**: _Military police_

**PT**: _Physical training—i.e. exercise_

2) **Reader response**: _Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed, especially all those first time reviewers and de-lurkers. I'm so thrilled that everyone is enjoying this piece. If you're reading this far "in" and you still haven't left a review, please, PLEASE consider doing so. _**Remember: the only "revenue" I get from writing fanfic is the psychic revenue I get from reader reviews.**_ So, please, throw me a bone, will ya?_

_Alright, without further ado, let's go back to Bagram._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 13: Wild Geese<strong>

* * *

><p>"Are you sure you're okay with this?" Booth asked her as he pulled on his sweats. "I mean—"<p>

"Booth," she said, knitting her eyebrows low and glaring at him. "Don't be ludicrous. I'm sure you and Mr. Bray have some catching up to do. Besides, I think some exercise will be very beneficial. The dopamine released during physical activity has mood-elevating and pain-relieving affects."

He stared at her for a moment before threading his casted arm through the sleeve of his gray Army T-shirt and pulling it over his head. "Okay," he said. "Thanks, I think." He bent over and dug through his assault pack in search of crew-length socks. Glancing up at her, he said, "You're sure?"

"Yes, Booth," she replied with a twinge of frustration. "Go jogging with Mr. Bray. It will give me a chance to video conference with Angela and Dr. Saroyan about a couple of things and—"

"Bones," Booth said, his voice edged with warning. "Be very careful, okay? Neither Cam nor Angela have—"

"I know, Booth—neither of them have the necessary security clearances, et cetera." She looked at him and rolled her eyes. "I understand all that. I want to get their input on some best practices, and the subjects I plan to discuss with them will not touch on any classified or sensitive data of any kind." She got up from the bed and walked over to him, reaching for his forearm. "Booth," she said. "I'm not going to burn you, metaphorically speaking. Alright? I am well aware of the sensitivity of the situation and the fact that—"

"I'm sorry," he said, interrupting her as he placed his casted hand on top of hers. "I know you know, it's just—well, I came away from that meeting yesterday with kind of a weird feeling…"

"What kind of weird feeling?" she asked.

Booth narrowed his eyes and shook his head. "I'm not sure, but the whole thing's really got all my spider-sense all a-tingle, you know. I'm not sure what exactly, but—"

"A tingle?" Brennan furrowed her brow and stared at him in puzzlement. "Although it's not uncommon for patients to experience tingling or discomfort after a cortisone injection, it's—"

Booth laughed and waved his casted hand dismissively. "No, no—it's not that." _That's my Bones, _he smirked. _So literal._ "No, I mean, I—I'm just saying that there was a kind of weird vibe in that meeting I was in with my colonel, the major from the MPs and the guy from NBC, and I don't want to take any chances. We need to follow the rules to the letter on this one, alright?" He fell silent for a moment as he knelt down to tie his shoes, pleased at finding something else that had become a bit less awkward now that he had gotten used to the cast. "Remember, Bones, the goal is to get the twenty-one identifications done so—"

"I know, Booth," she said softly. "I know."

"I know you know," he said, sighing as he double-knotted his laces. "It's just—" He stood up and wiggled his foot against the carpet.

"Booth," she said pleadingly. "Put your sling on and go—Mr. Bray is probably already waiting for you downstairs."

"Okay," he said, a smile breaking across his lips. He shrugged into his sling and pulled her against him for a kiss. "I'll be back in an hour," he promised as he pulled his lips away from hers. "Give my best to Angela and Cam."

"I will," she said, swatting his bottom with a saucy grin as he slipped out the door.

* * *

><p>"Hey, Booth," Wendell said as he saw his friend exit the glass door in front of Brennan's contractors' dormitory. He glanced at his watch and quirked an eyebrow, then chuckled quietly.<p>

"Hey, Wendell," Booth said, suppressing a sheepish grin as their eyes met. He ran his hand over his newly-trimmed hair, his fingers splayed apart as if, at least for a moment expecting to find enough hair to thread them through. "Ready?" he asked with a lopsided grin.

"Yeah, sure," Wendell replied. "If you think you can keep up with me."

"What?" Booth snorted. "Eat my dust, little man," he said with a waggle of his tongue as he took off.

With a laugh, Wendell took off after him, quickly catching up as Booth struggled to find his natural rhythm as he discovered one-handed locomotion to be more awkward than he had expected. He glanced over at his jogging partner and tried to think of carrying a football tucked against his belly.

"What?" Wendell asked as his eyes met Booth's.

"Nothin'," Booth replied, swiveling his head as he watched an up-armored Humvee speed by them. "It's just kinda weird running with a sling."

"I'd imagine," Wendell said with a grin. "You doin' alright there, buddy?"

"Yeah—no problem."

"No," Wendell laughed. "Not with the running, I mean—but, you know, more generally."

Booth huffed out a breath and rolled his lips together as he considered a response. "Yeah, I guess," he answered. "It's just hard, you know." He could feel the sweat dampening the front and back of his T-shirt by the way the material clung to his skin. It felt good to get out and exercise again. "You know—when you, well, sign up for something like this—that shit might happen, and you might lose friends. I've lost friends of mine in war before." Booth felt his heels hit the hard sand on the side of the road and the way the firm ground pushed up against the balls of his feet as he finished each stride. "But you never really can prepare yourself for something like this—it's hard to explain, I guess."

Wendell blew out a long breath as he chugged along next to Booth. "I know what you mean," he said. "I mean—you know what I mean. I'm sorry, man."

"Thanks, Wendell," Booth said, turning his head once more as a truck rumbled by carrying fifty-gallon drums of what he presumed was lubricating oil or solvents for the aircraft. "Welcome to a working Air Force base, huh?" He shrugged with a grin as a second truck sped by, this one clearly carrying Jet-A fuel.

"It's like being at an airport, without all the taxi cabs and full of more guys carrying guns," Wendell quipped. "Well," he added as he watched an all-male platoon of Marines jog by in the opposite direction on the other side of the road. "And almost no women."

Booth shot him an odd look. "Wait, are you on the prowl again, Wendell?" he asked. "'Cause I really don't think this is the best place to be trolling for the kind of women you're probably looking for."

Wendell laughed, slowing his pace a little as he lifted up the bottom hem of his T-shirt to wipe the sweat off his brow. "You're probably right," he admitted. "Unless you can show me to the female officers quarters, eh?"

"Umm, no," Booth snorted. "First off, most of 'em are probably Air Force, and you deserve better than that, my friend."

"What do you mean?" Wendell asked, turning to him with an open-mouthed grin. "I have a old college girlfriend of mine who went into the Air Force. They actually ended up paying to send her to law school after she made captain. She's hot and smart—and she could totally kick my ass."

Booth laughed.

"No, seriously," Wendell said, his words suddenly weighed down by the affects of the 4,900 feet of altitude. "When we were in college, and our dorm fielded this intramural flag football team, the other teams were always talking all kinds of trash about our girl quarterback until they realized she was basically our best player. We won the dorm-league intramural championship because of her."

"So, is she single?" Booth asked with a smirk.

"Why, are you looking?" Wendell retorted, his eyes darting over to watch his friend's response.

"No," Booth replied evenly. "Not at all." A smile flashed across his lips as he entertained a private thought. "Not at all," he said again, glancing over to Wendell before turning his attention back to the road ahead.

Wendell nodded but did not respond. They ran in silence for fifteen minutes, hugging the edge of the road that cut across one side of the base. Wendell admired the rugged, craggy mountains that surrounded the valley in which the base was situated, even as he winced a little at the way his lungs burned at sucking in the cold, thin air as he pushed himself to keep up with Booth's pace.

"I didn't expect it to be so beautiful here," he said quietly, looking up to watch a V-shaped flight of squawking bar-headed geese pass overhead. "I was reading about the Hindu Kush on the flight here."

"Yeah," Booth agreed. "I felt the same way when I got here." He blew out a breath between pursed lips and narrowed his eyes as the orange-hued sunrise broadened into full daylight, illuminating the whole of the valley. "These mountains," he said. "The Hindu Kush—this is what stopped Alexander the Great from invading India 2,300 years ago. He got his army over the Hindu Kush, but after years of seemingly endless war against the Persian Empire and the herculean effort of crossing the mountains, they got to a river east of what's now Lahore, Pakistan and they mutinied." He looked over at Wendell and smiled. "They followed him across half the known world but after crossing the Hindu Kush—these mountains—they wouldn't follow him into India."

"I can imagine that," Wendell huffed in response, grinning at Booth's comment, yet another confirmation that the beer-drinking, hockey-playing, iron-fisted cop was, in fact, more sophisticated and well-read than most people assumed him to be. "I'm sure I'm never gonna live this down, Booth, but let's turn around. The mountains are kind of kicking my ass at the moment, dude."

"Softie," Booth said with a grin. "Let it be known, just between you and me, I can outrun you with one hand tied behind my back."

"Duly noted, Booth," Wendell said, reaching his arm out to smack his companion's arm. Looking both ways, he crossed to the other side of the road and began jogging back the way they came. "You could've warned me about the altitude, though."

"Huh," Booth grunted. "I thought you, being a scientist and all, would have looked that up. Especially since you spent the flight over reading about the mountains."

"Touché," Wendell grumbled, reaching for the hem of his T-shirt and peeling it off, tucking the sweat-logged garment in the waistband of his sweats as he jogged a little faster to catch up with Booth. "You're in good shape, dude."

"Thanks," Booth smiled. "There's not a lot to do in one's spare time on deployment other than do PT and play cards and video games. The internet access is pretty hit and miss in some of the areas I was in, so—"

"And no alcohol, right?"

"Right…"

_Kennedy tapped Booth on the shoulder as the latter stood in the doorway of the barracks tent watching the kid-sergeants play Texas Hold 'Em. "Do you have a minute, Sarge?"_

"_Huh?" Booth turned around. "What? Yeah, sure." _

_With a last glance at the card game, he turned, ducked under the flap and walked into the crisp Afghan night. Bastone stood a few feet away, his foot propped on the stump of a fig tree the soldiers cut down their first day in Marjeh to make room for their tents. _

"_What's up?" Booth asked Kennedy as he watched Bastone exhale, two long streams of smoke pulsing out of his nostrils as he pulverized the still-glowing butt under the heel of his boot._

"_I can't believe you forgot," Kennedy snorted as he reached into his thigh pocket and pulled out three travel-sized plastic shampoo bottles, tossing one to Booth and Bastone before slowly unscrewing the cap of the one he held in his hand. He brought the bottle to his nose, took a whiff and smiled. "It's Saint Patrick's Day, you douche."_

"_Oh, jeez—you didn't," Booth said as he cautiously unscrewed the cap of his own bottle. "Oh, shit!" he groaned as the odor assaulted his senses. "What the fuck is this?"_

"_Consider it my gift to you, Booth," Kennedy grinned as he glanced over to Bastone. "You know, in honor of the holiday."_

_Bastone opened his little plastic bottle and shook his head as the sharp scent hit his nose. "This might just be the nastiest-smelling hooch I've caught a whiff of in all my years in this man's army," he said. Glancing up at the full moon, he furrowed his brow, took a deep breath and circled the open bottle under his nose. "This smells like MD 20/20 cut with Robitussin and two day-old Dr. Pepper."_

"_I refuse to disclose my recipe," Kennedy said with a narrow-eyed smirk. "So, are you guys gonna drink or what?"_

"_Do you think it's safe?" Booth asked Bastone, trying to decide if it was better to drink the noxious brew slowly, sip by sip, or to just slam it back like a shot, all at once. "Or do you think he's trying to hook himself up with a quick field promotion to Sergeant Major by poisoning me?" Booth turned to Kennedy with a wagging finger of warning. "Watch out, huh, 'cause you might find the new gig isn't all that it's cracked up to be." He took another sniff of the concoction and decided it was best to sip it, fearful that if he drank it all in one go, he would surely vomit._

"_Oh!" Kennedy said, snapping his fingers as he reached into his pocket and pulled out his MP3 player. "I almost forgot. Need some good Fenian tune-age to kick off this wee party of ours. Huh?" He pushed the button on the little device and held it up so that his two companions could hear as the music started:_

Was down the glen one Easter morn to a city fair rode I  
>There armed lines of marching men in squadrons passed me by<br>No pipe did hum, no battle drum did sound its dread tattoo  
>But the Angelus Bell o'er the Liffey's swell rang out through the foggy dew…<p>

"_Yeah," Kennedy said as the band surged in with drums, electric guitars, a fiddle and a tin whistle._

"_This rocks," Booth observed. "This is like Celtic folk rock." He held his shampoo bottle o' hooch in his left hand as he played air drums with his right hand, bobbing his head up and down in time with the aggressive beat._

Right proudly high over Dublin Town they hung out the flag of war  
>'Twas better to die 'neath an Irish sky than at Suvla or Sud-El-Bar<br>And from the plains of Royal Meath strong men came hurrying through  
>While Britannia's Huns, with their long range guns sailed in through the foggy dew…<p>

"_You know this one?" Kennedy asked, choking a bit on his homemade liquor as he listened to Booth sing along in his best attempt at an Irish brogue._

"_Of course," Booth laughed, sucking in a breath before taking his first sip of the hooch. "Fuck all, that's nasty, Southie." He coughed as the sharp vapor burned into his nostrils and he glanced quickly behind him at the warmly-illuminated tent where the kid-sergeants huddled around on ammo crates, hunched over their cards, laughing and smoking. "Good God…" _

_Bastone grimaced as he watched the other two men struggle to imbibe the stuff. "This is how low we've sunk," he grumbled as he lifted the plastic bottle to his lips. "Damn—"_

_Booth and Kennedy exchanged a glance and began to sing along with the next verse with wide, happy smiles:_

'Twas England bade our wild geese go, that 'small nations might be free'  
>Their lonely graves are by Suvla's waves or the fringe of the great North Sea.<br>Oh, had they died by Pearse's side or fought with Cathal Brugha  
>Their graves we'd keep where the Fenians sleep, 'neath the shroud of the foggy dew…<p>

"_Happy Saint effin' Patrick's Day, boys," Kennedy said, raising his little shampoo bottle with a hearty wink to encourage the other two to do the same. "Our little bit o' green in this hell-hole."_

"_Damn straight," Booth agreed, raising his bottle with a shrug. With a sideways glance at the laughing, back-slapping kid-sergeants in the tent, he waggled his eyebrows and whispered, "sláinte!" Kennedy and Bastone bumped their bottles against Booth's._

Oh the bravest fell, and the requiem bell rang mournfully and clear  
>For those who died that Eastertide in the spring time of the year<br>And the world did gaze, in deep amaze, at those fearless men, but few,  
>Who bore the fight that freedom's light might shine through the foggy dew…<p>

"_Sláinte," Kennedy croaked as he steeled himself to take a sip._

"_Cheers," Bastone said, closing his eyes and shaking his head before throwing back the two ounces of liquor. "Fuck, that's awful," he snorted, nearly gagging as the taste clung to his throat. "Damn."_

Booth was shaken from the memory by the sound of a honking horn from behind him. He realized he'd drifted a bit too close to the roadway as he heard the cargo truck rumbling past him.

"You okay there, Booth?" Wendell asked, his words coming in pants as they rounded the last corner and came within sight of the contractor dormitories. He watched Booth's jaw tense as he swallowed, blinking but not immediately responding.

"Yeah," he said, shaking his head as if to jostle his mind back to the present. "Just thinking about my guys."

Wendell slowed his pace as they arrived in front of his building. He pulled his T-shirt out of the back of his waistband and wiped the sweat off his face and chest as he sighed, unsure of what to say to his friend that wouldn't come across shallow or trite. "I'm sorry, Booth," he said, noting his companion's deeply-wrinkled brow and distant gaze. "I—maybe this sounds lame, because, well, I know I never served, Booth, but I feel like this is my chance to give back to guys like you and your guys who've given so much for the rest of us, you know." He pursed his lips and looked over his shoulder as another cargo truck rumbled past them. "I'm glad I'm able to be here and help you and Dr. Brennan do this thing for them, you know. I—"

Booth nibbled the inside of his lip and nodded, smiling faintly in appreciation. "Thanks, Wendell." He lifted the hem of his T-shirt and wiped the sweat off his forehead, then glanced at his watch. "Pick you up here in an hour, okay? The three of us will go get breakfast and then head to the lab, huh?"

"Sure, man," Wendell said, rubbing the sweat off the back of his neck as Booth turned away, a certain melancholy in the slow, loping way he moved as he walked. "See ya in an hour." Wendell's cheeks rose in a smile as he saw Booth open the door to Brennan's dormitory and walk in, his posture straightening as he walked in and the heavy glass door closed behind him.

Booth walked down the hallway, his hands on his hips as he caught his breath. The corridor seemed dark in comparison to the bright sunlight he'd been staring into for the last forty minutes, and he blinked a few times as his eyes struggled to adjust. He whistled a tune softly between his teeth as he walked towards Brennan's door, the sound of the tin whistle lilting in the background of his thoughts. He chuckled at the memory of Kennedy's foul-tasting concoction as he sang the last verse of the song, his voice scarcely more than a whisper as he arrived in front of his partner's door.

_As back through the glen I rode again and my heart with grief was sore  
>For I parted then with valiant men whom I never shall see more<br>But to and fro in my dreams I go and I kneel and pray for you,  
>For slavery fled, O glorious dead, when you fell in the foggy dew.<em>

He turned the lock and opened the door, looking up to find Brennan standing there in a towel.

"You're back," she said with a smile, adjusting the towel across her chest as he closed the door behind him.

"I'm back," he replied with a shrug.

* * *

><p><strong>AN****:** _More memories. A long chapter in which not a lot happened, but hopefully you found it meaningful. The trio have a long day ahead of them, and Booth's already started it off with a new set of heavy memories. Thankfully, he's got not one but two people to lean on as they embark on the most difficult part of the process. Do you think he'll manage? I think so._

_You want more? I sure want to give you more. In fact, I'm dying to tell you the rest of this story. _

_I know there are a lot of lurkers out there—people who have put this story on alert and, based on the hits I see, are reading each and every update. _

_**Please, please—don't read and run. **_

_Tell me what you think. I've never written a piece like this before and, even with the huge response, I'm really wanting to know what parts are working well for you. Are there scenes or images that are really powerful for you? Tell me which ones. I want to know._

_So, please, press that little review button and do your thing._

_Thanks!_


	14. Paperwork

**Killing Two Birds**

**By:** dharmamonkey  
><strong>Rated:<strong> M  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> _Hart Hanson owns _Bones_. But people like me who play in his sandbox give you all those delicious little moments that Hart and friends leave out. In this case, AU do-overs for that gap between Seasons 5 and 6 that wrought so much havoc for our heroes. That's why you read fanfic._

* * *

><p><strong><span>AN:**

1) **Military acronyms/terminology**: _A reviewer noted that I'm using some acronyms/lingo the meaning of which may not be immediately evident. Here are some you'll want to take note of because they show up in this chapter:_

**SGM: **Sergeant Major

**SSG: **Staff Sergeant

**1SG:** First Sergeant

**NCOIC:** Non-Commissioned Officer In Charge

2) **Reader response**: _Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed, especially all those first time reviewers and de-lurkers. I'm so thrilled that everyone is enjoying this piece. If you're reading this far "in" and you still haven't left a review, please, PLEASE consider doing so. _**Remember****: the only "revenue" I get from writing fanfic is the psychic revenue I get from reader reviews.**_ So, please, throw me a bone, will ya?_

_Alright, without further ado, let's go back to Bagram._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 14: Paperwork<strong>

* * *

><p>Brennan looked at him for a moment as she watched him shrug out of his sling, trying to decipher the unreadable expression on her partner's face, then stepped closer and, lifting herself up on her tippy-toes, kissed him. The corners of Booth's lips curved into a smile and he snaked his arm around her towel-clad waist and pulled her body against his as he kissed her back, holding her bottom lip between his for several long seconds before releasing it. He walked his hand up her back as he kissed her, and hooked his fingertips between the top edge of her towel and her still-damp skin. Stepping away, he tugged at the fabric and the towel fell away, leaving her standing before him, gloriously nude, her combed-out hair still wet as it fell carelessly over her shoulders.<p>

"I'm back," he said again, his voice brighter this time as he drank in the sight of her. He reached down and grabbed the bottom hem of his sweat-logged Army T-shirt, quickly peeling it off as he took a step towards her and again closed the distance between them.

"You're sweaty and I'm clean," she complained weakly as his arm once more snaked around her waist, his palm cupping the warm skin of her bare ass. "Booth," she whimpered.

"Huh," he grunted. "So you don't want to—?" Booth grinned as he watched her pupils pulse once as they dilated, whether in response to his words or, more likely, his touch, and her mouth fell open in a sigh.

"But I'll have to shower again," she said, her last words falling nearly in a laugh as he swallowed them up in another kiss.

"I'm sure we can find a way to deal with that," he said with a chuckle as he pulled his lips from hers. He could smell the swirl of spicy ginger and sweet coconut in her hair. "You can help me get clean," he whispered, his warm breath tickling her ear. "Think of it as killing two birds with one stone."

"Yes," she whispered back, bringing her hands over his hips and under the waistband of his sweats before sliding them and his briefs down his hips, pausing briefly in the process to squeeze his firm, round cheeks with her fingertips.

He groaned in reply and, quickly toeing out of his running shoes, reached down to push his pants down his legs before stepping out of them. He felt himself sway and wobble a little as his oxygen-starved brain struggled to manage the challenge of undressing (or being undressed) while Brennan's hands roamed his backside and at the same time keep from tripping over his own sweat-soaked pants.

"I'll start the water," she said, her mouth twisting into that sexy half-smile that nearly undid him every time she did it.

"Okay," he croaked back, blinking himself out of his aroused haze as he slid out of his socks and looked around for the plastic sleeve he had to wear in the shower to keep his cast dry. "Fuck," he hissed as he fumbled through the contents on the top of Brennan's desk.

"It's in here, Booth," she called to him with a laugh.

"Oh, good," he replied with a relieved laugh—briefly trying to come up with a joke about needing to sheath himself before sex but not thinking he'd have to use one that large before finally deciding the would-be remark wouldn't have been all that amusing, after all.

After Brennan fastened the top of the cast protector around Booth's bicep, she opened the shower curtain and climbed in, pulling her hair back as the warm stream doused her chest. He stood there in admiring silence for a few moments before joining her, sidling up behind her, brushing his erection against the cleft of her ass as he ran his hand over the curve of her hip.

"God, you feel great," he said to her, his voice husky in her ear. "Fucking amazing." He pressed kisses along the sloping line of her shoulder, grinding against her backside as each of her breathless sighs brought him closer to the fraying edge of self-control. Pulling her flush against his groin, he reached his hand around and parted her folds with his fingers.

"Oh, Booth," she moaned as his long fingers slid along her slippery folds, gasping when he pressed tight, impatient circles against her most sensitive place. "Please," she whispered, turning her head to the side so she could see his eyes, which had darkened with want. "Now—oh, God, now…"

She had always known he had quick reflexes, but nonetheless he sometimes surprised her with the speed with which he moved, and in that moment, as he nudged her legs apart with his knee and entered her swiftly, she sucked in a breath of surprise as she felt him fill her up completely the way only he ever had.

"Oh, Jesus," he groaned as he pulled out, leaning his bagged, casted arm gently against the tile wall and driving into her with a quiet grunt. "Fuck, you feel good," he murmured as he pressed soft, sucking kisses against the creamy skin of her shoulder. He squeezed her fleshy hip with his fingers and then loosened his grasp, tightening his hold each time he thrust into her.

"Oh, fuck, Booth," she whispered, pushing back against him to meet each one of his rolling thrusts. Her mouth fell open and she breathed a long, deep sigh as she broke apart, clenching and then quivering around him. "Ohh…ohhhh…ohhhhh…"

"That's it," he whispered back as he drew his hips back and drove into her one last time, putting everything he had to give into that one motion before he himself broke. "Oh…oh, Jesus, Bones…" He shuddered against her, holding himself still as his release pulsed out of him. His breaths came in shallow pants and the smooth, ivory plane of her back seemed dotted with violet stars as he finally floated back from the ether.

"Oh, Booth," she sighed, rolling her head to the side as she felt his kisses creep up her neck to her jaw. "You were right," she whispered, her breath catching in her throat as she giggled against his lips' caresses.

"About what?" he murmured.

"Physics," she replied with a smile.

* * *

><p>Booth followed Brennan and Wendell into their half of the hangar, his left hand splayed gently against the small of her back as he grinned at the delicious memory of the shower they had shared that morning. The smile swiftly fled his face as he caught sight of the twenty-four carefully-stacked plastic crates that held the bodies of his twenty-one comrades and the three Afghans recovered from the crash site. Brennan, though she walked ahead of him, heard him suck in a breath and felt his hand, usually firm and steady, quiver against her as they approached the area he had dubbed the Jeffersonian East.<p>

"I was thinking," Booth said, his voice low as the other two turned to face him. "I know that—" He swallowed hard, averting his gaze from the stacks of crates and staring at his boots for several seconds before looking up again. "I know you've just gotten started, but—"

"Booth," Brennan whispered, reaching for his hand. "You don't have to—"

He grunted. "No," he insisted, his voice almost angry as he gritted his teeth. His knit brow hung low over his eyes as he felt his heart begin to race. "You have to let me help you." He shook his head as he saw Brennan's cool gray eyes soften. She pursed her lips and her mouth fell open, but she did not speak. He blinked a couple of times, then took a long breath and continued. "You two are gonna do your squint thing, and I don't want to get in the way of that, but there are a couple of things you should know—you know, before you get too far in, okay?" He swallowed again, his jaw hardening as he tried to ignore the vague tingle he felt in his sinuses as his eyes began to burn. "My guys—I mean, the eleven guys of Alpha 3623—I know that a lot of them got…" He sighed as the blood began to roar in his ears. "They got torn up pretty bad in the crash, but each one of us wore dog tags laced into our boots, one on each foot. Each of us carried four dog tags—I asked every one of the guys to get an extra set made before we left Fort Bragg, and the two officers, Warrant Officer Sivick and Captain Torres, did it, too, you know, just in case we got hit with an IED, so it'd make it easier to make sure some part of us got home. Maybe it sounds crazy, but…" He shrugged and looked away again, staring at his feet as he rolled his jaw from side to side, trying to choke back the tears he felt howling inside of him. "So if the feet are intact, and the boots survived the, you know, the crash and the fire, you might find the dog tags on the boots. That will tell you at least who some of the feet belong to."

Wendell looked down at Booth's feet then, glancing up again, met Booth's eyes and nodded, his lips pressed into a firm line because he didn't know whether a smile or a frown would be more offensive at that very moment.

Brennan observed the silent exchange and nodded. "That will be extremely helpful," she said, squeezing Booth's hand and holding it as he rolled his thumb over hers. "Did the men from the aircrew do that also?"

Booth narrowed his eyes and looked away, staring up at the rafters as he thought about it. "I don't think so," he said quietly. "They didn't see the same kind of action that we—you know, walking around the streets with all the IEDs and everything, but I don't know—I don't really remember." He looked at her and sighed. "I'm still having trouble remembering…"

"That's okay," she said quickly, not wanting to trouble him further. "We can work with that. Mr. Bray—"

"Dr. Brennan, since some of the individuals were more—" He hesitated, taking a breath as he felt Booth's gaze weigh heavily on him. "Some are more intact than others, right? That being the case, and in light of what Booth just told us about the dog tags in the boots, it seems like the best way to begin would be to start with those that are most intact, see if we can do those identifications first, so we can…" His voice trailed off as he looked over at his friend, his face seemed drawn and tense. "So we can confirm identity on those guys and get them ready to go home, right?"

"Yes," Brennan said. "The two sets I asked you to begin working on yesterday—" She didn't say _defleshing _or make explicit reference to the bones that her intern had boiled in the washing soda solution. "Those two most likely came from the cockpit of a helicopter, based on the tempered glass and other debris that were found with them." She turned to him, her voice scarcely louder than a whisper. "They were severely burned and largely disarticulated," she explained. "I would like you to work on those two individuals. Once you have reassembled those two, then, using the information Booth provided us on the cockpit crew, see if you can make a preliminary determination of identity. Thereafter, if you are able to make a preliminary finding on that basis, then use the dental records in the file on the back table over there to confirm."

"Yes, Dr. Brennan," Wendell said, giving Booth a solemn nod as he reached for the box of sterile gloves. He felt a painful heaviness in his chest as he was suddenly overcome by the gravity of what they were doing, and—more soberly, indeed—the gravity of what Booth had survived, and was still enduring.

Booth and Brennan watched him walk away to work on the two skeletons. "I took notes," she said, unsure at that moment whether she was speaking for her benefit or for his as she opened her lab notebook to the marked page, but feeling her thoughts begin to race as the tendrils of her mind embraced the problem at hand. "Several of these individuals are remarkably intact, from the standpoint of not being particularly disarticulated, so I am going to start with those." She saw Booth's face pale at her words. She placed her hand over his, sandwiching his large hand between her two smaller hands, stroking his fingers gently. "I'm sorry, Booth, to sound so clinical about it, but—"

"Don't apologize," he said, a certain hoarseness in his voice. "This is what you have to do to get this done. That's why I asked them to bring you here." He sighed and shrugged as he pulled his hand away from hers. "It sounds like you two have things under control, so I'm gonna sit over there. I have some, uh, you know, paperwork to do. If you need anything, or have any questions, just ask. But I'm gonna just sit over there and do my thing, alright?"

"That's fine, Booth," she replied, her voice breaking at hearing his melancholy. "Do what you need to do. And let _me_ knowif you need anything, okay?"

He nodded slowly and turned away, walking over to the far end of one of the back tables, taking his seat in front of the file box and opening up the Army-issue laptop.

* * *

><p><em>Dear Mr. and Mrs. Swann,<em>

_My name is SGM Seeley J. Booth, and I served with your son, SSG Michael Swann for six and a half months, first at Ft. Bragg and later in Afghanistan. I know that there is nothing that I can say that would bring you much comfort in the wake of losing your son, but I want you to know that he was an amazing young man, a man of incredible courage, unfailing dedication and unassailable honor, and he was a true friend and brother to those of us who served with him. He was a good kid. He used to tease me from time to time and say I was old enough to be his father (which is true). Though I never told him this, I would have been proud to have him as my son. _

_When I arrived at Ft. Bragg to join Mike and the other ten guys in our unit, Operational Detachment-Alpha 3623, for our pre-deployment training, I was the odd man out—a recent returnee to the Army after working in law enforcement for ten years—and, as usually happens to new guys in a unit like Alpha 3623, I got put through the ringer by the other guys. Your son Mike was the first one to befriend me, and even though I was his NCOIC and had command authority over him, his friendship was important to me, not just in the first days and weeks after I joined the unit, but also as those weeks turned to months and we found ourselves in the middle of some very challenging situations in Afghanistan. I could always count on Mike to volunteer for tough assignments and to go beyond the call of duty, even when the situation was complex or chaotic, as we often found to be the case over here._

_Mike spoke of you often. I remember all the times he told me how much he was looking forward to returning to Dubuque after his enlistment was up at the end of the year. Like all of us, it was the dreams of home and the future back home—in his case, marrying Sarah and finally settling down, going back to help Mr. Swann run the family tractor dealership—that kept him going when the going here got really rough. I cannot tell you how sorry I am that I was not able to bring him home to you to live out those dreams, and I am sorry that it has taken us so long to send him home to you. _

_I am also sorry that I am not able to deliver this message to you in person, but I'm still here in Afghanistan, working with a team of scientists to help identify the other men that Mike and I served with so we can send them home to their families, too. _

_In the meantime, let me leave you with the photograph below, which was taken after Mike and I, along with the other guys in the photo—Lukas, Bastone and Makovsky—beat the other five enlisted guys in the Alpha in a game of football that we played in a field on the outskirts of the town of Qūryah. Mike was a hell of an athlete, with big, quick hands, sharp reflexes and an amazing vertical leap, so he was our star wide receiver (and, when we were at Bragg or a camp where they actually had basketball hoops, our power forward). As you can imagine, Mr. Swann having been in the service himself, soldiers talk a lot of trash, whether on the football field or the basketball court or otherwise. But Mike, the polite Iowa farmboy he was, never talked trash or anything like that. (Well, except this one time Makovsky stole a pack of his cigarettes and traded them away for fancy coffee, but who could blame him? Just goes to show that even a man of Mike's patience had his limits.) Nope, he was always the foremost gentleman among us, and no matter how insane the other guys got in cranking on each other—or him—he left the truly epic trash-talking to obnoxious East Coast city boys like me and Master Sergeant Parnell and First Sergeant Bastone. That blush and the lopsided grin he's got on his face in the photo is because the guy who took the photo, Parnell, just made an off-color remark about the nature of Mike's paternity, just to make him squirm. Mike just grinned, and let 1SG Bastone retaliate with a full-on Brooklyn smackdown. That was Mike, always a gentleman and an all-around stand up guy, the salt of the earth and really squared away. _

_I want you to know that, even though I knew him for only the six or so months we served together, Mike was a good friend and a beloved brother-in-arms, and I will remember him for the rest of my life. I am sorry for your loss and will keep you and Mike in my prayers always._

_Sincerely,_

_SGM Seeley J. Booth  
>United States Army<br>3rd Special Forces Group  
>(formerly NCOIC of Operational Detachment-Alpha 3623)<br>_

_Bagram Airfield, Afghanistan_

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** _Okay, I just about cried writing that last part. _

_You want more? I sure want to give you more. In fact, I'm dying to tell you the rest of this story._

_I know there are a lot of lurkers out there—people who have put this story on alert and, based on the hits I see, are reading each and every update._

_**Please, please—don't read and run.**_

_Tell me what you think. I've never written a piece like this before and, even with the huge response, I'm really wanting to know what parts are working well for you. Are there scenes or images that are really powerful for you? Tell me which ones. I want to know._

_So, please, press that little review button and do your thing._

_Thanks!_


	15. The Only One Who Can

**Killing Two Birds**

* * *

><p><strong>By:<strong> dharmamonkey  
><strong>Rated:<strong> M  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> _Hart Hanson owns _Bones_. But people like me who play in his sandbox give you all those delicious little moments that Hart and friends leave out. In this case, AU do-overs for that gap between Seasons 5 and 6 that wrought so much havoc for our heroes. That's why you read fanfic._

* * *

><p><strong><span>AN:**

1) **Military acronyms/terminology**: _A reviewer noted that I'm using some acronyms/lingo the meaning of which may not be immediately evident. Here are some you'll want to take note of because they show up in this chapter:_

**IED: **_Improvised explosive device, a homemade bomb—frequently used in roadside bombings or car bombs—against troops and vehicles. IEDs accounted for more than 2/3 of coalition casualties in Afghanistan. _

**ANA: **_Afghan National Army_

**RPG/RPG-7: **_Rocket-propelled grenade, a type of shoulder-launched weapon originally designed for use against tanks._

**EOD: **_Explosive Ordinance Disposal, a military unit specializing in detecting, identifying and defusing explosive materials like bombs and artillery rounds_

**KIA: **_Killed in Action, meaning an individual's death was a result of hostile enemy action, and not in an accident._

2) **Reader response**: _Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed, especially all those first time reviewers and de-lurkers. I'm so thrilled that everyone is enjoying this piece. If you're reading this far "in" and you still haven't left a review, please, PLEASE consider doing so. _**Remember****: the only "revenue" I get from writing fanfic is the psychic revenue I get from reader reviews.**_ So, please, throw me a bone, will ya?_

_Alright, without further ado, let's go back to Bagram._

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><p><strong>Chapter 15: The Only One Who Can<strong>

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><p>Booth pulled the letter from the printer and read it again, then turned around, glancing over and watching his partner and her intern, each of them huddled over a steel table, examining human remains the way he had watched them do countless times before. For a fleeting fraction of a second, he stood there and smiled at the normalness of it, before once again becoming aware of the slick feel of the paper he held between his thumb and forefinger. He felt a twitch, a tingle in his fingertips and he noted the way the fingers of his right hand closed into a fist—or, rather, tried to before the hard fiberglass cast and the aching numbness in his little finger frustrated the familiar gesture—and suddenly the soothing moment of normalness shattered.<p>

He set the letter down next to the printer and rubbed his hand over the razor-short hair on the back of his head. The blood began to roar in his ears again as he felt his heart begin to pound, and his breaths came shallower as the memory overtook him.

"_Mother-fucker!" Bastone muttered as he and Booth ran through the alley that connected two blocks of mud-brick houses along the northern edge of the bazaar to the street that formed the market's south side. _

_Booth held his index finger flush against the receiver of his M25 sniper rifle as he dodged a stray dog that was rooting around in the earthen gutter, nosing through a pile of trash in the alley. Glancing back once at the trash pile—knowing that IEDs were frequently concealed beneath such piles—Booth jogged to catch up with his buddy. He quickly fell in behind Bastone, who crouched low in the shadow of the hot afternoon sun, his M4 carbine balanced on his knee as he peered around the corner of the building._

"_Fuck," Bastone hissed. "Take a look," he grumbled, rolling a cinnamon toothpick between his teeth as he indicated with a jerk of his head towards the dusty street to the right._

"_Awww, shit." Booth shook his head then nodded for Bastone to proceed._

_When they arrived at the scene, it was utter pandemonium: men, women and children with blood-streaked faces, their words coming in shrieks, their voices howling in pain, or perhaps fear—Booth wasn't quite sure, because it wasn't easy to tell in some cases which of the people before him had been wounded and who had simply been splattered with the blood of the dead or wounded. The ANA troops that Booth and Bastone had been leading through the bazaar had finally begun to trickle out of the alleys and into the street and, as they themselves tried to make sense of the confusion, began to identify the wounded who were salvageable and administer first aid to them._

"_Come on," Bastone grunted, smacking Booth on the arm with the back of his hand as he clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. _

_Booth shook his head, stunned at the scene, wondering if this was what they got on their fourth day in country, what the hell would the next twelve months have in store for them. His mouth filled with the sour taste of bile at the thought, and he found himself unable to shake the feeling that he had made a very, very big mistake letting that colonel, Pelant, talk him into reenlisting. He followed Bastone as he ran over to the smoking shell of twisted, shattered metal that was the remnant of the car that housed the lethal car bomb. Crouching down next to what used to be the trunk of the Datsun, Booth narrowed his eyes and tapped his finger against the side of the trigger assembly as he scanned the length of the street. His heart was pounding in his ears and he could feel his pulse throb in his thumb as he tried to steady his hold on his weapon._

"_RPG," Bastone whispered as he thumbed through a handful of debris that lay in the sand next to his boot. "Looks like they wired a bunch of RPG-7 rounds together to a detonator."_

"_What? How can you tell that?" Booth asked, pointing to the metal-strewn sand with a jerk of his chin. "From that?"_

"_I was EOD when I first went in," Bastone explained. "Before I decided to become a ground-pounding trigger-puller." Booth cocked an eyebrow in surprise. "Hey, I know." The first sergeant held out his hand and, slinging his weapon under his arm, pointed to a pair of inch-long slivers of brown metal. "That's what's left of an RPG-7 round, baby."_

"_You know," Booth said with a sigh. "It's a pretty sad state of fuckin' affairs when there's enough RPG ammo floating around that they can use the damn stuff as TNT."_

"_Yeah, right?"_

Booth shook his head with an unintelligible murmur and blinked away the memory as he tried to still the heaving rise and fall of his breaths. He glanced over at Brennan who looked up at him briefly with an imprecise gaze and, hesitating a moment, returned her eyes to the blackened, booted leg that she was examining under the magnifying lamp, a pair of tweezers in one hand as she peeled away a layer of melted plastic from the tibia. He felt his stomach turn as he squeezed his eyes shut and turned away.

He raised his hand to scratch his chin, but pulled back, rolling his wrist and holding his hand flat over the brushed steel surface of the table. Booth watched his hand tremble for a couple of seconds before drawing his fingers into a tight fist. _What is happening to me? _he thought, flexing his fingers nervously as he rolled his thumb across his fingertips. He drummed his fingers on the tabletop, furrowing his brow as he tried to make sense of the myriad of sounds and images that echoed in his mind.

_"Forester Niner, Forester Niner, this is Forester Two. Seven hundred meters and closing. Please acknowledge, over."_

_"Forester Two, Forester Two, this is Forester Niner," Booth replied, speaking quietly and evenly into the headset microphone. "Roger that, seven hundred meters and closing. Target sighted at location Coyote-Alpha along with two other suspected Tango-Indias. Please acknowledge, over."_

_Booth held his rifle, resting it over the crook of his left elbow as he peered through the scope at the three Pashtun men seated on rickety chairs in the café, sipping steaming glasses of lightly-steeped black tea. He felt his heart rate begin to creep up as he waited for the first helicopter to respond. His eye twitched as he heard a strange sequence of sounds amid the faint and ever-louder sound of the approaching helicopter rotors: a soft _plunk_, a zipping _swoosh _that seemed to pass right over his head, and a thundering explosion._

_"Forester Two, please acknowledge, over," he said into his headset, trying to maintain his calm and a steady breath as he continued to watch the scene in the café across the street._

_His call was met only by silence._

_"Forester Two, please acknowledge, over!"_

_A voice crackled over the radio. "Mayday, mayday, mayday! This is Forester Two. Mayday, may—"_

_Then the voice fell silent, his transmission interrupted mid-word by white noise. A fraction of a second later, Booth heard a deafening crash across the street and a sharp crack behind him. Then everything went black as the pilot's last words echoed in his ears._

_"Mayday, mayday, mayday!" _

Again, the sensations were so strong: the smell of burning fuel and smoking oil, the scratchy feeling in his throat and the tears in his eyes from the choking dust of the mud-brick building that had fallen down on top of him. And the sounds—the voices. He could hear them all: voices in English shrieking and howling in pain as their bodies burned like wicks in paraffin, voices in Pashto shouting in confusion, orders being barked by low male voices, soon joined by the nervous, panicked chatter of higher female voices. He heard them all, muffled as they were by the heavy layer of mud-brick, dust and shattered wood beams that surrounded him. He heard another voice—his own—cry out for help, and he tried to blink away the burning feeling in his eyes, his brows knitting together as he recalled the strange sensation of feeling something warm trickling into his eyes and down his cheek. His mouth tingled at the coppery taste of his own blood, and he swallowed hard, grunting as he squeezed his eyes shut, wanting nothing more than to jettison the obtrusive memory. He felt a hand reach out for him—

"Booth," Wendell said, his hand touching his friend's shoulder. Booth turned his head and the young man could see the anguish smoldering in his normally bright, warm brown eyes. "Are you okay?" he asked, his eyebrows raised in concern.

For a moment, Booth's mouth hung open, speechless and numb. He rolled his jaw and looked up into Wendell's soft blue eyes and jerked his chin with a tentative shake of his head. "It's just—"

Wendell squeezed Booth's shoulder. "I'm a little worried about you, man," he admitted. Sensing immediately that he would receive no reply to that statement, he held up the piece of paper in his other hand. "You left this over by the printer," he said solemnly, the gravity in his voice leaving no doubt that he had read the letter. "Do you, _umm_—?"

"Sign it," Booth said quickly.

"What?" Wendell shook his head in confusion, sure that he had misunderstood Booth's words.

"Sign it," Booth said again, his voice low but insistent. He raised his broken arm the couple of inches allowed by the sling. "I can't sign it. I mean, if I used my left hand, it'd look like a child signed the letter, and—look, just sign my name for me, please? I wanted to…" His voice trailed off and he looked away. He sighed and took a deep breath, trying to pull himself together and push away the lingering sensations that echoed in his mind. "Those people deserved a handwritten letter, but I can't, you know. And I want to sign it, but with my good hand, my signature looks like a second-grader's, and these people have lost so much, they deserve to get a letter that looks like it was signed by a grown-up, okay?" He turned his eyes back to Wendell's. "Please?" His brown eyes, glistening with emotion, widened and his eyebrows flew up, a slow, vague smile appearing on his lips as he gave his friend the best puppy-dog eyes he could muster under the circumstances. "_Please?_"

Wendell laughed softly. "Okay," he said, pulling the ballpoint pen out from behind his ear. His hand hovered over the paper for a moment as he reminded himself that he was signing Booth's name, not his own. "How do you want me to sign it?" he asked, nibbling his bottom lip.

Booth grinned faintly at the question. "Seeley Booth," he said. "Thanks, Wendell."

"It's a damned decent thing you did, writing that letter," Wendell said quietly as he signed Booth's name at the bottom of the page. "It's gonna mean a lot to that family, you know, to get that." He thought about his cousin who did two tours in Iraq as a corpsman with the Marines and won the Navy Cross, and wondered if he ever wrote any letters home like that. He didn't know, because his cousin didn't talk much about what happened to him over there in Iraq.

"Yeah," was all Booth said in reply.

Wendell slid the letter across the table after he had signed it, his fingers lingering on the text for several seconds before he clicked the pen and slid it back behind his ear.

"You sure you're okay, man?"

Booth nodded. "Yeah," he said. He blinked a couple of times, then turned to Wendell. "Hey, do you guys have an extra one of those magnifying thingies I could use?" He drummed his fingers on the table awkwardly.

Wendell glanced over to where Brennan was working and saw that there was, in fact, an extra magnifying lamp on an adjacent table. "Yeah, what are you—?" He winced at the thought that Booth would look at the remains. "You're not going to—you really don't have to…"

Booth raised his hand and dismissed Wendell's objection with a wave. "No," he said grimly. "No. I'm not going to look at _those _crates." He indicated with his eyes the three crates that Brennan and Wendell had open on their tables and the twenty one others stacked along the nearby hangar wall. "No," he whispered. "I'm gonna start going through _those._" He pointed to the sixty crates along the wall on the other side of their half of the hangar.

Wendell narrowed his eyes and shrugged. "I'll bring you the extra magnifying lamp," he said quietly, patting Booth on the back as he walked away.

"Thanks, Wendell."

* * *

><p>Brennan awoke with a start, her eyes snapping open as she sensed something was off, even in the heavy haze that hung over her in her half-awake state. The sheets next to her were cool to the touch, and the warm presence of her partner—whose arm had been snaked around her waist, his palm coming to rest over her navel as she had drifted off to sleep after they had made love—was absent. For a moment, she felt her heart race and a dozen competing thoughts flooded her mind, leaving her in a swirl of lightheaded panic as she rolled over and looked over to the window by the desk. The blinds were half-drawn, and she saw the moonlight fall on his nude form, painting faintly-illuminated stripes across his chest and abdomen as he leaned against the wall, staring out the window.<p>

"Booth?" she whispered.

"Bones," he answered, his head turning slowly. "You're awake."

"So are you," she said, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. "Why are you up?"

"I couldn't sleep," he confessed with a shrug, scratching his stubbled jaw as he smiled at the sight of her, her ivory skin and dark nipples seemingly glowing in the dim light.

"How long have you been awake?" Brennan asked, her voice edged with concern as she swung her legs over the side of the bed.

"I dunno," he mumbled, turning away and pushing two of the blinds apart with his fingers. He sucked in a breath as he felt her arms slide around his waist and her crisp curls brush against his backside as she pressed against him. He brought his hand down and placed it over hers.

"Come back to bed," she whispered, pressing a light kiss against his shoulder. "Come on, Booth. You need your sleep."

He turned his head to the side and smiled. "Okay," he whispered. He hesitated, stealing one last glance out the window before looking back at Brennan's shadowed face. "I don't deserve you, you know."

"I know," she said, smiling into his shoulder. "Come on…"

They crawled back into her bed, and he curled up behind her, pulling her hips close to him. She felt his soft skin warm her back, and she wiggled her ass against his groin as his arm enveloped her and his lips nibbled at her earlobe. His breath tickled the nape of her neck as he made a low humming sound in his throat. She closed her eyes as she felt his hard heat press against the cleft of her backside.

"Booth," she moaned as she felt his lips and tongue work their way down her neck to her shoulder. "You need to get some sleep," she whispered, her breath catching in her throat as he nudged her leg over with his knee. "Ohh…"

"This will help me sleep," he replied with a quiet snicker. "And you, too." He laid another kiss, this one wetter and more insistent, along the curve where her neck and shoulder met. Brennan moaned softly at the sensation, then gasped when he stroked into her.

"Oh, yes…"

* * *

><p>That morning, the three filed into the aircraft hangar in much the same way they had in the days prior. Brennan and Wendell took their places at adjacent tables, each of them preparing to work with a separate set of remains as they began with the remains that seemed most intact. Wendell had confirmed the afternoon before that the first two bodies were those of CW4 Javier Martinez of Farmington, New Mexico and his copilot WO1 Peter Jablonsky of Allentown, Pennsylvania, the cockpit crew of the helicopter that landed on the building that Booth was hidden in at the time of the crash. Brennan signed off on the paperwork and released the remains to the mortuary specialists of the 54th Quartermaster Company. These two men, the first identified, would be the first two to go home.<p>

Booth took a seat on his stool at his usual table, with the box of service files on the end farthest from him and a crate of crash scene debris in front of him. He wore a latex glove on his free hand—not to avoid contaminating evidence, but rather to protect himself from the toxins that came with handling material that had incinerated in a fire fed by petroleum distillate fuel, lubricating oil, and exploding ammunition and ordinance—and safety glasses, to keep splintered debris and toxic particulates (like the tungsten carbide from the armor-piercing ammo that the helicopter door gunners had locked and loaded at the time of the crash) out of his eyes. He had asked Brennan for a pair of tweezers and a couple of surgical trays, and he began sifting through the debris, handful by handful.

"What are you going to be looking for?" Brennan had asked him that morning as they were getting dressed.

"I'm not sure," he replied. "I want to make sure there's nothing in that debris that points to a cause other than an accident." Booth noted the nonplussed expression on her face, and explained. "All of these men—my guys, Bones—have been listed by the Army as KIFA…killed in flight accident. If those helicopters went down because they were taken down, my guys should be reclassified as KIA."

"And you as wounded in action," she had added.

"I don't care about that," Booth snapped, roughly jerking up the zipper on his ACU jacket. "I don't fucking care. I don't need another fucking Purple Heart, Bones." His nostrils flared in anger even as he closed his eyes and tried to calm himself. "I got a couple of those already, thanks." Scowling, he sat on the edge of the bed and put his boots on, each of his movements swift and hard as he cinched up his laces. "But if my guys were taken down by an insurgent RPG, then they deserve to be recognized as KIA—as having died at the hands of the enemy." He swallowed hard and held his jaw firm. "They deserve the truth. The Army owes them that."

Brennan had nodded but said nothing. Though she didn't entirely understand why the distinction was so meaningful for him—after all, the dead soldiers were still dead, and the patriotic sacrifice the men made in dying that day was the same, regardless of what caused the mechanical/electrical failure that resulted in the two aircraft crashing to the ground—she didn't want to challenge him about it.

As she settled down to her work that morning and opened the plastic crate labeled "Bag D, 1 of 4," she found herself glancing over at her partner. She watched him, shaking his head in time with the music that pulsed into his earphones as he sifted through a tray of metal and clay-brick fragments. She narrowed her eyes, curious and confused at how his moods had seemed to shift so rapidly over the last few days. She remembered how she had found him early that morning, standing naked next to the window, staring out at nothing in particular. She felt her metaphorical heart ache for him, a lump forming in her throat at the thought that she couldn't reach whatever it was inside of him that appeared so deeply wounded.

Wendell stood at the next table, watching his mentor watch her longtime partner. He had been watching them since the moment he stepped into the Bagram Airfield Passenger Terminal and saw the two of them standing next to one another. He couldn't put his finger on it then, even after the phone conversation he had with Angela during his layover in Dubai, but as he had watched them together in the days following, he was sure that Angela had, in fact, been right. He noted the way they seemed comfortable with one another, the air between them no longer crackling with the kind of tension that he had grown used to seeing over the years. He saw the way she touched his hand, the way he smiled at her, and, when they thought his back was turned, how close their faces drifted when they spoke. He noticed the way their eyes twinkled in the morning in what Angela once called the FFL:

"_A Federal Firearms License?" he had asked._

"_No, silly—the freshly-fucked look," she replied, the snort he heard suggesting the answer was obvious._

"_Oh," he replied with a laugh. "That."_

He was happy for them. He loved and admired them both—for completely different reasons, of course—but nonetheless, he was fond of them, and like everyone at the Jeffersonian, had been hoping that they would finally find their way into each other's arms. Despite the way things had seemingly fallen apart between them six and a half months earlier, as far as Wendell could tell, it looked like they had finally had finally made their way back to each other—even though the circumstances were horrific in their particulars and worse than he could have imagined in his worst nightmare—and they seemed content together.

But Wendell was worried.

"Is there a problem, Mr. Bray?" Brennan asked him, shooting him a glare as she observed his flagging focus. "It looks like there is a tibial fracture," she noted, leaning over and pointing at a particular point two inches below the lateral and medial condyles. "Based on the extent of remodeling, I would estimate—"

"Twenty-four to thirty-six months," Wendell interjected, wanting to ensure Brennan knew that he knew his stuff. "Which would mean that injury should be noted in the individual's service record, since all of these men have been in the Army on a continuous basis for at least the last forty-eight months. Also, there's evidence of a shrapnel injury here." He pointed to an area on the lateral side of the lower end of the femur. "Which should also be noted in the record."

"Correct," she agreed with a nod.

"Dr. Brennan," he said, raising his eyebrows in caution.

"Yes, Mr. Bray?"

He put his hands on his hips, glanced over at Booth who still sat on the other side of the hangar, hunched over a tray of metal fragments, picking them up and turning them over in his hand.

"I'm worried about Booth," he said simply, looking up at her and seeing a flicker behind her pale gray eyes.

Brennan's lip quivered as she glanced over at her partner and then back to her intern. "I am, too," she said quietly.

"You know him better than I do," Wendell said. "But I've never seen him—well, this way."

Brennan shrugged and took a deep breath. "He's been through a very difficult emotional trauma," she said. "He lived and worked with these men—or, eleven of them, in any case—and formed close relationships with them, and he feels their loss very intensely."

Wendell blinked, hearing his mentor do what he had seen her do before—fall back on clinical, objective language to avoid having to deal with the emotional rawness of a situation. He shook his head, looked down at the charred, broken man on the table and then over to Booth, then brought his head up to fix his gaze on Brennan's cool eyes.

"I think he feels guilty for having survived," Wendell said quietly. "My cousin, he was a medic that served with the Marines in Iraq. He lost a lot of guys, and got wounded in a roadside bomb in Haditha a few years ago. He got the Navy Cross for what he did that day, saving a bunch of wounded guys even though he himself was pretty badly hurt. He got out a couple of years ago, and according to my aunt, he feels a lot of guilt for having survived when six other guys in his unit died in that attack."

"I don't know how to help Booth with that," Brennan admitted, her voice sad. "The guilt. I don't know what to do."

"I don't either," Wendell said, wiping his brow with his forearm.

"I don't know what to do," she said again, the anguish and helplessness in her voice as plain to her as it was to the man who stood next to her. "I don't think I can help him with this. I don't think I can."

"You're the _only _one who can," Wendell said to her.

Several long moments of silence hung between them as they both watched Booth bob his head to his music and reach into the plastic crate for another tray's worth of debris.

"You're the only one who can," he said again.

Brennan took a deep breath and shook her head. "I don't know," she said. "I just don't know if I can."

"You have to," he said to her.

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><p><strong>AN:** _Have we ever heard Brennan sound this unsure around anyone other than Booth or Angela? I don't think so. But these are extraordinary circumstances. Poor Booth is really struggling. Can she do what is needed to help him? _::chews fingernails::

_Do you want more? I sure want to give you more. In fact, I'm dying to tell you the rest of this story._

_I know there are a lot of lurkers out there—people who have put this story on alert and, based on the hits I see, are reading each and every update._

_Please, **please, ****PLEASE**—don't read and run._

_**Tell me what you think.** I've never written a piece like this before and, even with the huge response, I'm really wanting to know what parts are working well for you. Are there scenes or images that are really powerful for you? Tell me which ones. I want to know. I **need** to know._

_So, please, press that little review button and do your thing._

_Thanks!_


	16. Help Me Help You

**Killing Two Birds**

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><p><strong>By:<strong> dharmamonkey  
><strong>Rated:<strong> M  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> _Hart Hanson owns _Bones_. But people like me who play in his sandbox give you all those delicious little moments that Hart and friends leave out. In this case, AU do-overs for that gap between Seasons 5 and 6 that wrought so much havoc for our heroes. That's why you read fanfic._

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><p><strong><span>AN:**

1) **Military acronyms/terminology**: _New mom (hello, Lucas!) and a great writer in her own stead (and writer of the awesomely amusing reviews ever), the incomparable _**Crayon Clown**_ noted that I'm using some acronyms/lingo the meaning of which may not be immediately evident. Here are some you'll want to take note of because they show up in this chapter:_

**KLA**: _Kosovo Liberation Army, the nationalist organization that fought to sever the predominantly ethnic Albanian region of Kosovo from the Serbian-controlled Yugoslavia which led to the Kosovo War of 1998-1999._

**Overwatch**:_ Describes when one small unit supports another unit, while they are executing a mission of some sort, usually by observing for enemy movement and providing covering fire _

**MI**: _Military intelligence_

**Deuce-and-a-half**: _A 2.5 ton truck used by military to carry cargo_

**1LT**: _First Lieutenant, the second-lowest officer's rank in the U.S. Army. A newly-commissioned Army officer is ranked 2LT, one rank lower than 1LT._

**SSG**: _Staff Sergeant, the rank immediately above sergeant in the U.S. Army._

**SFC**: _Sergeant First Class, the rank immediately above SSG and immediately below Booth's then-rank of Master Sergeant._

**SGT**: _Sergeant, the second-lowest Non-Commissioned Officer (NCO) rank in the U.S. Army_

**TLBV: **_Technical Load-Bearing Vest, a vest-like system used by the Army since the late 1980s for carrying ammunition, water canteens and other basic supplies._

**ALICE pack**: _All-Purpose Lightweight Individual Carrying Equipment, the type of backpack in use in the US Army in the late 1990s._

**BDU**: Battle Dress Uniform, the mottled green and brown camouflage uniform used in the 1980s, 1990s and early 2000s, prior to the adoption of the Army Combat Uniform (ACU) which is used now.

**MEDEVAC**: Medical Evacation—the process by which an injured serviceman is removed from the field of combat and taken in for treatment.

2) **Reader response**: _Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed, especially all those first time reviewers and de-lurkers. I'm so thrilled that everyone is enjoying this piece. If you're reading this far "in" and you still haven't left a review, please, PLEASE consider doing so. _**Remember****: the only "revenue" I get from writing fanfic is the psychic revenue I get from reader reviews.**_ So, please, throw me a bone, will ya?_

3) **Special shout-outs**:_ Thanks to the following readers/pals for sharing insights, answering obscure monkey queries and being overall sounding boards as we move into the mega-heavy part of this story: _**sarahlizlangas **_(my Royal Navy pal who answers obscure questions about fuel for turboshaft engines), _**Jasper777 **_(who shared her experience with fellow cops who suffered lasting effects of trauma and loss), _**AvaniHeath **_(who offered input/feedback and did a few rounds of monkey babysitting to keep me off Twitter and focused) and, last but not least, _**Lesera128**, _my friend and collaborator who has made my Brennan better, stronger and deeper. _

_Alright, without further ado, let's go back to Bagram._

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><p><strong>Chapter 16: Help Me Help You<strong>

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><p>"No!" Booth grunted, pushing her legs away from him with a rough shove of his thigh as his chest rose and fell in heavy pants. Brennan shifted, rolling over as she turned to face him. His eyes were closed, and his healthy arm was resting on his abdomen, his hand closed in a tight fist as his wrist twitched. She stared at him, her forehead deeply creased as she watched him with concern.<p>

"No!" he shouted, his teeth gritted and sweat beading on his brow as he rolled his head from side to side. "_Noooo!" _His lips moved but for several moments no sound came out.

His fingers scraped against his belly, clawlike as he leaned his head back and groaned. "You can't—" His mouth hung open and she watched his Adam's apple bob up and down as he swallowed. "Hang in there, man," he grumbled, his breaths coming faster.

"You—" She felt his legs jerk under the sheets as he kicked her calf. "You've gotta…no…just a little bit farther, and then we—"

"Booth," she whispered, her hand suspended in the air just inches from his shoulder.

"Come on, man," he moaned, his face drawn and his jaw tense as he pleaded with whomever he was addressing. "Come on…don't…no…look it, man…you can hang in there just...no…_no…noooo_…"

Booth thrashed and groaned, then reached his arm out, elbowing Brennan in the chin. She gasped, so focused in the moments leading up to his movement that she didn't notice it until it was too late. She held her hand over her mouth in stunned surprise as she watched his eyes snap open. He turned to look at her, blinking several times as he tried to orient himself in the hazy space between sleep and consciousness.

"Bones?" he whispered, his voice hoarse and his sweat-dotted brow creased as his eyes scanned her face.

"Booth," she said quietly, cupping her slender fingers over the round muscle of his shoulder as she moved her jaw from left to right, trying to massage away the dull ache in her chin. "Are you alright?" she asked, her eyes wide with uncertain concern.

He clenched his eyes shut and shook his head. "Yeah," he croaked. "I just had a dream, I guess." He rubbed his bleary eyes with the heel of his hand and grunted as he sat up, drawing his legs up in front of his chest.

"Want to tell me about it?" she asked, sitting up next to him, propping a pillow behind her back as she placed her hand on his forearm. His skin was damp with sweat, and she could see little beads of perspiration hanging on the ends of the short hair on the back of his head.

He shook his head. "It was nothing," he mumbled, blinking as he took a deep breath, trying to still the panting rise and fall of his chest. "Don't worry about it."

Brennan rolled the inside of her bottom lip between her teeth and quirked an eyebrow. "Tell me about your dream," she said insistently.

Booth swallowed, jerking his chin in a slight shake of his head. "It's really—"

"Tell me…"

"You don't—" He looked up at her with pleading eyes as if silently begging her not to make him talk. His nostrils flared as he tried to slow his breathing to a normal rate, and Brennan could feel the pulse racing in his wrist as she stroked the soft skin of his forearm. "You really don't want to—"

"Booth," she said, her voice low and even. She thought of a dozen things to say: _I love you, Booth. I do. I want to help you. Please tell me what's going on inside that brain of yours so I can help you. It can't be healthy to keep all of these things bottled up inside of you. Let me help you. Why won't you tell me what's going on, Booth? _But, though her mouth hung open in anticipation of the words she would say to make him open up, she said nothing, unable to think of what to say that would not sound trite or insipid. So she sat there, her mouth gaping slightly as she squeezed his arm, tracing her fingers in a feathery touch over the bulging veins there before squeezing again. "Please," she whispered. _Please. Talk to me._

"I was—" He blinked and looked away briefly, scratching his jaw and taking a deep breath. "In my dream, I was back in Kosovo…in Yugoslavia, you know."

Brennan nodded, his hesitation reminding her of the first time he spoke to her of his service as a sniper, when they sat together on the bench at Arlington on the afternoon of Devon Marshall's funeral, towards the end of the first year of their partnership.

"_I've done some things," he had told her._

"_I know," she said._

"_No," he said quietly, his voice deep but insistent. "No, you don't."_

"_But it's okay," she assured him, her voice rising as she felt her own insecurity rise like bile in her throat._

"_Well, not…" His voice trailed off. "Not as a secret." He sat down on the bench. "It's not…I have to be, uh, honest about myself." Brennan looked at him sympathetically as she sat down next to him. "I have to be able to tell someone," he said._

"_You will—in time, Booth," she said. "You will."_

His experience in Kosovo was the first war story he told her, the first time he had opened up about his combat experiences to her. Brennan suddenly felt anxious and inadequate as she watched him, sitting naked next to her in bed, his arm braced across the top of his knees as his mouth hung open, his eyes blinking as he summoned the strength to open up again. It seemed to her as if, no matter how far they came—whether individually or together—he was still deeply scarred by those experiences, even more than ten years after the events in question. _What can I do? _she wondered, _that the passage of ten years' time has not done for him? _She exhaled slowly and quietly, trying to mask her fear and insecurity as she mentally catalogued the same things she saw in his face.

"They sent a company-sized element of Rangers into Kosovo ahead of the main invasion," he explained. "This was like May-June 1999, right? Still in the middle of the NATO bombing campaign. NATO went in and bombed the piss out of the Serbs using missles and aircraft from ships in the Adriatic. At first, there was no ground force presence, at least officially. My group of Rangers went in immediately after the very first NATO special forces units, Norwegian _H__æ__rens Jegerkommando _and _Forsvarets Spesialkommando _units, who'd gone in overland through Macedonia to coordinate with the KLA to lay the groundwork for the peacekeeping operation that would follow. We got dropped in at night so we could link up with the Norwegians and the KLA."

Brennan cocked an impressed eyebrow at hearing Booth use the proper names for the two Norwegian units. "So you parachuted in behind enemy lines?" she asked.

He nodded. "Yeah, I mean, at that point, it was Serbs fighting the Kosovar Albanian forces, who were hugely outnumbered, outgunned and outclassed because the Serbs—Milosevic and his generals—basically had complete control of the Yugoslav military apparatus. So, in a sense, the whole country was behind enemy lines."

"I understand," she said evenly. When the pause became too long, she nodded and said, "Go on."

Booth drew a heavy breath. "Yeah, so they had us Rangers divided into platoons, which were then further subdivided into six-man hunter-killer teams comprised of a sniper, a spotter, and four other guys to give overwatch cover, right? And our job was to take out the local and regional Serb police and military leaders that the KLA and NATO's MI guys identified as the ones who were going to resist or obstruct the implementation of the peace deal that the diplomats were trying to work between the Serbs and the ethnic Albanians."

Brennan stroked her thumb over the back of his hand. "I remember," she said. "That is, I'm somewhat familiar with the events you describe from when I went to Bosnia-Herzegovina about eight years ago to excavate a group of mass graves there."

"Right," he said, a faint smile coming to his lips.

The smile swiftly vanished as he imagined seeing Brennan standing in a grave, a grave that he remembered having been filled up with the lifeless bodies of men, women and children being slung from the back of an open-backed deuce-and-a-half truck while he and his team watched helplessly from a distance. He remembered their clothes—men and boys in jeans, T-shirts and sneakers, the women in dresses and headscarves. His eye twitched as he recalled a teenager in a bright green Mountain Dew T-shirt and one little boy, perhaps eight or nine years old, who wore an L.A. Dodgers baseball cap that was knocked off his head and fell to the ground beneath the truck's tailgate as his limp body was tossed into the trench by the Serb soldiers. He remembered hearing the Serb soldiers laughing as they disposed of the bodies of the slain civilians.

"So," she said gently. "What happened in your dream?"

Booth shook his head, rubbing his eyes and folding his hand over his brow. "I don't want to—" He sighed. "I—look, I really don't want to…"

Brennan rolled her head back in growing frustration. "How am I supposed to help you here, Booth?" she asked, a thread of emotion edging into her voice. "If you won't talk to me…"

He glared at her in nonplussed silence for several long moments, and the only sound that passed between them was the sound of their breathing and the monotonous hum of the air conditioner.

"_Oh my God," Booth hissed as he slid down the wooded embankment to where the four other members of his Ranger team were. One of them, his platoon leader, 1LT Hank Luttrell, lay on the ground as one of the other Rangers held his legs a few inches off the ground. Luttrell's helmet lay next to him on the ground and another Ranger held his head between his hands as Luttrell shivered and howled in agony, his half-fisted hands quivering as he saw Booth approach. _

"_He's hit, Booth," SSG Barrett said, looking up as Booth and his spotter ran up to them. "Bad, man." Booth crouched down next to Luttrell and saw that he had been shot, the apparent entrance wound piercing his side but, reaching below and sliding his fingers along the small of the lieutenant's back to feel for an exit wound, Booth felt none. Barrett fell back on his haunches as he raised Luttrell's legs up higher, letting his boots fall on either side of his hips. "He says he can't feel his legs," he whispered._

"_Jesus Christ," Booth said quietly, glancing around and seeing the bodies of six Serb fighters laying bloodied and still in the brush a few feet away. "There will be more," he said grimly. "We've gotta get him the fuck outta here, now." His heart was thundering in his ears and he glanced at the four other Rangers that crouched in the dirt. "Here—you take this," he said to his spotter, handing him his sniper rifle. "I'll take him," he murmured._

"_What?" SFC Cranston said as he watched Booth hand off his weapon. _

"_You take this," Booth said, shrugging off his rucksack and shoving it in Cranston's direction. "Don't give me that look, you ass." His dark eyes burned hard as he looked down at the young officer who writhed on the ground which was now dotted with quarter-sized pools of his blood. "We leave no man behind. We're Rangers."_

"_Yes, Sarge," Cranston replied, threading his arms through the straps of Booth's ALICE pack as SGT Kimmich wrapped a bandage firmly around Luttrell's waist to staunch the bleeding. _

_Luttrell opened his eyes and reached up, grabbing Booth by the strap of his Tactical Load-Bearing Vest. Booth looked down and saw his lieutenant's hand, covered with his own blood, the stain of which made the yellow gold of wedding band seem almost copper-colored under the summer sun._

"_Tell Jenny I—"_

_Booth shook his head and squeezed Luttrell's hand. "You'll tell her yourself, okay?" he whispered to him. "We're getting you outta here, alright? You're gonna be fine."_

_Luttrell blinked a couple of times, then smiled faintly through the pain. "Okay, Booth," he whispered, sucking in a breath as Kimmich tied the bandage tightly against his hip._

"_Help me," Booth grunted to the other Rangers as he knelt down to pick up Luttrell who moaned and mumbled incoherently as he was lifted up. Booth winced as he stood, sliding the lieutenant's torso over his shoulders as he lifted himself up to his full height. "Go," he whispered to the other men with a jerk of his head as he tucked his arm underneath Luttrell's knee and fisted the sleeve of his BDU shirt. "Now. Don't wait for me, Kimmich. Go ahead. I'll follow you. Just go." He turned to Cranston and Barrett. "You two take a perimeter position, okay? Protect our flanks." Taking a breath as he gently shifted Luttrell's position on his shoulders, he turned to his spotter. "Fallon will bring up the rear, cover my backside," he said with a grin. "Just the way he always does." Kimmich and Cranston hesitated as they stared at Booth, who stood in front of them holding the lieutenant across his shoulders in a fireman's carry. "Now, go."_

"_God, it hurts, Booth," Luttrell moaned. _

"_I know it does," Booth said. "I know it does. Just hang in there. You're doin' real good there, Lieutenant. Just hang in there, okay?"_

"_Alright," Luttrell replied, sucking his breath in through his teeth as Booth began to walk, his first few steps punctuated with quiet grunts as he tried to comfortably balance the dead weight on his shoulders._

"You carried him?" she asked. "On your back?" He nodded. "That must have caused a strain on your latissimus dorsi, considering you were still carrying some of your own equipment, correct?"

"Yes," he said, his eyes blinking as he scraped his knuckles across his forehead. He remembered the weight of the ammunition and the sound of his canteens clanking softly around his waist as he walked after he had loosened the fit of his TLBV to free up a bit of room around his shoulders and ease the pressure on the wounded lieutenant's belly as Booth carried him. "Five kilometers, until we got to the rendezvous point where we met the Norwegians, whose medics triaged and stabilized him and had him moved to a point near the Macedonian border where he was MEDEVAC'd out."

"Is that how you injured your back?" Brennan asked.

"I didn't even start to feel it, really, until the next day," he said. "When we went back out on another mission, to take out that big fish Radic." His eyes fell and he turned away as he sighed, his breath still as the memories—the sounds of the boy's birthday party, with the music and the laughter and the happy voices of the other boys playing soccer in the yard nearby—pricked at the edges of his mind.

"Yes," she said, nodding as she pressed a kiss against his bare shoulder. "I remember."

The air conditioner droned on, filling the numb silence that fell between them until, after a minute or two had passed, Booth finally spoke again.

"I couldn't save him," he said, his voice low and ragged with pain. "Hank."

Brennan looked up at him, confused. "But you _did_ save him," she said, her eyes tracing over the hard angles of his jaw and cheekbone. "You carried him on your back over two miles. He would surely have died had you not—"

"No," Booth said, shaking his head firmly, his hand clenching in a fist. "You don't understand. I wasn't able to keep him from getting hurt like he did—"

She shifted somewhat tensely, her back squirming against the pillow as she narrowed her eyes. "How would you have done that, Booth?" she asked, her voice tight with confusion. "You told me you weren't even there when the Serb patrol encountered your Ranger compatriots. You were fifty, a hundred meters away when all of that happened." She slid her fingertips over his knuckles, his fingers splaying just enough in response that she could thread her fingers through his. "There's absolutely nothing you could have done."

Booth sighed, a slight rumble in his throat as his jaw tensed. "Training those men—the enlisted men, not Hank—was my obligation, my duty. When the Serb patrol got the drop on them while they were holding down the overwatch, it meant I let them down, you know, that they weren't better prepared, that their reflexes weren't sharper, and—"

"No," Brennan said firmly. "_No. _War is chaotic. You told me that yourself. You can't control all the variables, Booth, because—well, just because. The fact is, you aren't in control of all of the the variables. You're in control of very, very few of them. You went into a situation that was very complex and chaotic and…"

Her words trailed off as she remembered the dream she had on the flight to Lahore on the way from Maluku and the night at the Hoover when everything seemed to fall apart for them. She thought about that damp evening, when she stood with him on the steps behind the Hoover, and he spread his cards out on the proverbial table. He laid his whole metaphorical heart bare for her, risking it all, and weighed down by her own fear and insecurity, she had pushed him away. In so doing, she had driven him away—forcing him to, as he said, 'move on,' which he did by reenlisting in the Army for a one-year tour in Afganistan. Six, nearly seven months later, they were now together again, but he was wounded, apparently deeply so, and wracked with pain—a wound that he suffered as a direct result of what she had done that night eight months before, one that Brennan didn't know how to heal. _I don't know what to do, _she frowned. _You're always the one who helps me, Booth. You're the one who always knows what to do, what to say, how to manage difficult emotions, how to come through on the other side of challenging situations. _Now he was the one who needed help, and Brennan suddenly felt very alone. _Who is here to help me? How can I help him if there's no one who can help me help him? _She watched his head drop to his chest. _This is my fault._

"I let them down," he said guiltily, his voice nearly a sob. "It's my fault."

"No," she whispered, brushing her lips across the warm skin of his shoulder, which was still slightly sticky with his perspiration, the sheets sweat-creased beneath him. "No, you didn't."

"I—" He swallowed, his breathing shallow as his eyes glistened with tears. "I…it's just that…I—"

"What can I do, Booth?" she asked, her voice humming against his skin. "Tell me what to do," she said, her fingers curled around his bicep. "Tell me what to do."

He looked down at her fingers and a vague, faint smile curved his lips as he saw how her fingers, tanned though they were by the Indonesian sun, were nonetheless two or three shades lighter than his own skin, which had darkened during long days spent shirtless in the high-altitude valleys of Helmand. He reached over with his casted hand and lightly stroked her slender, smooth fingers with his.

"I don't know," he whispered. He curled the fingers of his casted hand, wincing slightly at the sharp, prickly sensation that shot down the outside edge of his arm and tingled up his little finger. "I—I don't know."

The faint orange glow of the morning sun began to peek through the gaps in the blinds of Brennan's window. He turned and looked at the alarm clock which blinked back _4:47 _in pale green digits. His eyes rolled over to the framed 5x7 photo of Parker that sat on the desk next to Brennan's laptop and he felt his stomach clench. His son and his partner—between them, they were the only thing clean, good and pure in his life—and a wave of nausea washed over him as he thought how it felt sometimes that the very ground under his feet was no longer solid anymore, like it had somehow lost its firmness. His thoughts sometimes seemed to not be his own, and the voice that spoke when he opened his mouth sometimes sounded like that of a stranger. He felt a swirling loss of control of the very basic contours of his life, and yet there was something worse, something even more frightening and indistinct: a strange, dark feeling of grim premonition, one that particularly seemed to nag and poke at him in the early hours of morning twilight.

"I want to help you, Booth," she said. "But I don't know what do do." She bent her head down and brushed her lips across the fingers of his casted hand. "Help me help you."

He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, squeezing them shut as he slowly shook his head, trying to rid himself of the feeling that he was soiled, unredeemably tainted by what he had done and, more so it seemed at times, by what he had not done.

"Touch me," he whispered, turning his head to face her, his eyes wide and his face drawn. "Touch me," he said again. "Love me."

"Love you?" she asked, not because she didn't—_I love you, with all of my metaphorical heart, caring more deeply for you than I could have imagined was possible to care for another person_—but because she could not rid her mind of the thought that whatever it was he wanted from her, it would not be enough to help.

"Love me," he said. "Please," he whispered, pleading as his brown eyes glimmered in the pale pink glow of the Afghan twilight.

"Yes," she whispered back, her voice wavering as she watched his eyes, childlike and uncertain. "Booth…" She pulled her hand away from his and raised it to his rough jaw, gently turning his head to face her as she brought her mouth to his, ready to give him the only thing she knew she could.

"Love me," he murmured as their lips met.

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><p><strong>AN****:** _Poor Booth. Poor Brennan. So much fear and uncertainty, radiating between them. What is going to happen? Can these two get through? I don't know!_

_Actually, I do. In fact, I'm dying to tell you the rest of this story._

**Slightly annoying but very brief broken record moment:**_ This is the most widely read, enthusiastically-received piece I've ever written. I know there are a lot of lurkers out there—people who have put this story on alert and, based on the hits I see, are reading each and every update. So p__lease, __**please, **__**PLEASE**__—don't read and run._

_**Tell me what you think.** I've never written a piece like this before and, even with the huge response, I'm dying to know what parts are working well for you. Are there scenes or images that are really powerful for you? Tell me which ones. I want to know. I **need** to know._

_So, please, press that little review button. Fuel my muse. Tell me what you think._

_Thanks!_


	17. A Lone Rider

**Killing Two Birds**

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><p><strong>By:<strong> dharmamonkey  
><strong>Rated:<strong> M  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> _Hart Hanson owns _Bones_. But people like me who play in his sandbox give you all those delicious little moments that Hart and friends leave out. In this case, AU do-overs for that gap between Seasons 5 and 6 that wrought so much havoc for our heroes. That's why you read fanfic._

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><p><strong>AN****: ** __Props of gratitude to _**AvaniHeath **_who unwisely posted on Twitter complaining of insomnia and as a result got finagled into providing a bit of impromptu feedback on really short notice at 12:30 am. I owe her a venti chai tea latte.__

_Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed, especially all those first time reviewers and de-lurkers. I'm so thrilled that everyone is enjoying this piece. If you're reading this far "in" and you still haven't left a review, please, PLEASE consider doing so. _**Remember****: the only "revenue" I get from writing fanfic is the psychic revenue I get from reader reviews.**_ So, please, throw me a bone, will ya?_

_Alright, without further ado, let's go back to Bagram._

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><p><strong>Chapter 17: A Lone Rider<strong>

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><p>Brennan stood up from her desk, her hands set firmly on her hips as she rolled her eyes at her partner. He sat on the edge of the bed, leaning over and cinching his boots tight as he looked at her out of the corner of his eye. "Booth," she said. "You're going to be late."<p>

"No, I won't," he said, standing up and reflexively dusting off the front of his ACUs, even though they had just been washed and ironed the night before. "You sure you don't want to come with me?" he asked, raising his eyebrows expectantly. "Come on. We can grab breakfast at the McDonalds on the way back to—"

She shook her head. "No, Booth," she replied as he reached over and grabbed his beret from the top of the TV set. "I need to make some calls, check in with Daisy to see how the project is progressing in Maluku, follow up on the delivery status of some materials I've ordered for us, and so forth. I'll meet you back at the hangar after your doctor's appointment."

Booth shrugged, blinking a couple of times with disappointment, then turned to the mirror to put on his green beret and check his uniform once more. "Okay," he said. "I'm just a little worried about what the doctor's gonna say. This is my shooting hand, you know, and—"

"I know," she said, her bottom lip twitching once as he walked over to her, wiggling the fingers of his right hand self-consciously. "It'll be fine, Booth. They'll probably do a CT scan to get a better look at the nerves in your arm and see if there is possible damage or excess pressure being put on the nerve or the epineurium through which the nerve fibers run." He frowned immediately at hearing the reference to nerve damage, and she reached out, rubbing her hand along his bicep in a gesture of reassurance. "But you need to make sure you're candid with the orthopedist and the neurologist about the specific sensations you've been feeling in your hand. That, along with the radiological results, is going to be critical to ensuring that they have the information necessary to properly assess the status of your healing and prescribe the course of treatment going forward."

He nodded. "Okay," he said. "I still wish you were coming with me, though."

"You know why I can't go with you, Booth," she said quietly. "We discussed this already. We may have been able to secure the silence of my dormitory neighbors about the nature of our relationship and the frequency with which you've been staying with me, but—"

Booth grinned and chuckled. 'Frequency' was a significant understatement. The fact of the matter was that they had not spent a night apart since the first night they slept together, a couple of days after her arrival at Bagram. "I know," he said. "But still."

"You need to go," she said, raising herself on her bare toes and kissing him, holding his bottom lip between hers for a moment before pulling away with an encouraging smile and giving his bottom a playful pat. "Go—"

"Alright," he said, taking a long breath as he walked towards the door. "See you in a couple of hours. I'll bring you and Wendell some good Mickey D's coffee. He takes his black, right?"

"I think so," she nodded. "You'll be fine, Booth," she said reassuringly. "See you in a bit."

He glanced over his shoulder one last time before the door closed behind him with a soft _clank_. She plopped down on the bed with a heavy sigh, burying her head in her hands as she felt her eyes burn and the inside of her nose begin to tingle. Outside her window, she heard the sound of a slamming car door pierce the morning quiet and the rumble of Booth's Land Cruiser turning over in the lot behind her building. The sound of his engine swelled in her ears then faded as he drove away, and Brennan sighed again. She felt her hands tremble against her cheeks and she felt suddenly as if all of the epinephrine in her system had suddenly run out, leaving her lightheaded and exhausted.

Alone in the silence of her room for what seemed the first time in days, the burning in her eyes finally betrayed her and she began to cry.

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><p>Brennan had tried to leave a message with the manager of La Coupole. She told him she needed to speak with the executive chef quite urgently and offered to hold, but was tersely informed that he was in the middle of the late dinner rush and was not available. <em>Fuck, <em>she thought dejectedly, plopping herself into the chair in front of her desk. She booted up her laptop and, while waiting for the website for _The Guardian _to load, she snapped her fingers, remembering that Angela had saved an old archived version of Brennan's smartphone's address book in a folder on the hard drive.

She glanced at her watch, did some quick mental math and determined that it was 10:30 at night in D.C. She dialed the number then listened as the phone rang, twice then three times before a low, crisp English accent answered.

"Hello?"

"Dr. Wyatt," she said, smiling at hearing the familiar accent after so long. "It's Dr. Temperance Brennan."

"Why, what a pleasant surprise!" he said, his voice coming across slightly crackled.

"Likewise," she said brightly.

"My profuse apologies," he said. "I'm having a bit of trouble hearing you. Let me step out of the kitchen and retire to the patio out back. One moment, please."

She could hear the rattle and hum of the restaurant's bustling kitchen in the background and remembered the dinner she and Booth shared at the chef's table in the middle of that kitchen the night before Booth's marksmanship requalification test. Her mind wandered back to the conversation she had with Gordon Gordon Wyatt in the observation room at the Hoover earlier that same day:

"_I'm trying to help Booth," she had told him. "I can be objective about his brain and he can't."_

_He arched a thoughtful eyebrow. "Sometimes you have to help people against their wishes," he noted._

_She replied, "I can't think of anything I wouldn't do to help him." As soon as the words left her mouth, she recognized the gravity of what she had said._

"So," Gordon Gordon began, his voice warm and even. "I trust that things are going well for you in Indonesia? Finding the fabled missing link, I hope."

Brennan hesitated, then reminded herself why she had decided to reach out to the psychiatrist-turned-chef in the first place. "I'm not in Indonesia," she said. "I'm in Afghanistan."

She heard a couple of moments of silence on the other end of the slightly-crackly line. "Oh," he said, his voice faint in surprise. "I'm going to hazard a guess, Dr. Brennan, that your presence in Afghanistan is not because you went to visit the former site of the Bamiyan Buddhas or excavate an ancient Bactrian city."

Brennan sighed. "That's correct," she said. "You're, of course, aware that Booth enlisted in the Army and deployed to Afghanistan a few months ago, after Heather Taffet's trial?"

"Yes, of course," Gordon Gordon replied. "He came to see me before he left."

She pulled the phone away from her ear and looked at it curiously, wondering what Booth might have said to Gordon Wyatt before he left. Shaking her head at the thought, she brought the phone back to her ear and continued. "I was in Maluku when, a bit more than two weeks ago, I received a phone call from a general at U.S. Central Command who told me that there had been a midair collision between two U.S. Army helicopters and that the Army required my assistance identifying the bodies of the twenty-one American servicemen killed in the crash."

She heard him suck in a breath. "I saw a news report on the crash after it happened but I was relieved when I saw that Agent Booth's name was not in the list of casualties that was published in the _Washington Post _the other day. It might seem like a bit of morbid _schadenfreude _but I will readily admit that I had hoped the Army unit that was involved was not his."

"Well," she said, tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear. "To make a long story a bit shorter, Booth _was_ a member of that Army unit, but because he was on the ground performing a reconnaissance function at the time of the incident, he survived—"

"Oh, thank heaven," he whispered. "However, I sense a 'but' coming—"

"Yes," she said. "Booth was injured when one of the helicopters crashed into the building he was in. He sustained a badly broken arm and some superficial facial injuries. The other eleven members of his Special Forces detachment and the ten men that comprised the helicopters' aircrew were all killed in the incident. Booth is the only surviving member of his unit. All of the other men he served with are dead. Every one of them."

"I see," Gordon Gordon said. "I am going to further suppose that he did not emerge from this catastrophe unscathed in the psychic sense, which is why you've called me, correct?"

Brennan sighed. "Yes," she whispered. "At first, it seemed like he was getting by, considering the circumstances, but now—he's not doing very well."

"Oh dear," he murmured. "In what way?"

She stood up and opened the blinds on the window, remembering the way the moonlight had shone through the slats a couple of nights before and cast stripe-like shadows across Booth's naked body as he stood there, leaning against the window in silence, unable to sleep in the hours before dawn. She looked over at the bed, remembering how just a few hours earlier that morning, she had woken to her partner crying out, moaning and thrashing in his sleep, and how he had told her about the dream he had about the day his friend Hank had been paralyzed in Kosovo. She thought about the dozens of occasions she had observed over the prior week when he seemed dazed, unfocused and inattentive, and how his moods seemed to be constantly shifting from morose, petulant or angry to sweet, affectionate or cheerful and back again such that she was never particularly sure at any moment how he would react to her words or actions.

"He seems unhappy," she said. "Depressed, almost. Even though he attempts to seem happy or content much of the time, I can tell—well, it seems like sometimes he is wearing the pleasant mood like a mask. As if it's a cover for an underlying melancholy."

"That's very perceptive of you, Dr. Brennan," Gordon Gordon said. "What else? Does he seem angry? I know that Agent Booth has struggled with anger issues in the not-so-distant past."

"Yes," she admitted. "He gets very easily frustrated much more so than he used to, before, even over small things—"

"I see," he said. "Would you say he is moody?"

"Yes," she whispered. "He's also…" She paused, her gaze falling on the large camouflage duffel bag tucked in the corner of her closet and the two sets of ACU uniforms and various Army, FBI and sports T-shirts hanging above it. "It's hard to explain, but he seems indecisive, insecure and tentative a lot of the time, in a way that's completely out of character for him. He normally is the kind of man that makes a decision and acts on it, sometimes a bit too impetuously, but now—I can't really explain it. It's strange…"

"I see," Gordon Gordon said, his voice pensive. "Does he seem to have any—"

Brennan interrupted him. "Although Booth's always been a bit of a light sleeper," she began, a sheepish grin creeping onto her face as she thought of all the times she and Booth had shared a bed without actually doing anything intimate. "He's had quite significant insomnia, which seems to be getting worse. And, in the last few days, he has awakened in the middle of the night after having very vivid nightmares—vivid enough that he shouts, groans and cries out, kicks and thrashes around in bed…"

"Night terrors," Gordon Gordon said quietly, softly enough that he did not interrupt her.

"He wakes up exhausted by these dreams, which only makes the situation worse during the diurnal hours because between the insomnia and the physically and—presumably—emotionally draining dreams…"

Her voice trailed off as she realized that the detailed description he had given left little doubt of her presence during these episodes. She waited, expecting for Gordon Gordon to make a comment about her familiarity with Booth's sleeping and waking habits.

"Hmm…" was all he said.

She blinked, turning to stare out the window as a pair of airmen unloaded a cargo van at the loading dock across the street. "Why aren't you saying anything?"

"What do you expect me to say, Dr. Brennan?" he asked, a smile faintly audible in his voice as he knew, though he was thousands of miles away, connected by a static-filled line and unable to see the expression on her face, exactly what she was asking. "I am going to infer from your comments that you and Agent Booth—well, indeed, Sergeant Major Booth at this point, correct?—are now involved in a more intimate relationship."

"Yes," Brennan admitted, a slight waver in her voice evidencing how flummoxed she was in that moment that Gordon Gordon showed no inclination to editorialize on the revelation. "We are." _Finally, _she added silently. "I'm deeply worried about Booth, though. I—well, I am not well-versed in psychology or behavioral neuroscience, but—"

"But you know Agent Booth better than anyone," he said, his tone firm and matter-of-fact. "Do you mind if I ask you some questions, Dr. Brennan?"

Brennan's mouth went dry, in that moment wondering what he would ask and whether she would have the answers he sought—or, perhaps, whether she was willing to vocalize those answers. She felt a slight panic wash over her, but she glanced at the bed—the sheets on his side deeply creased after he awoke drenched in his own sweat—and she shook her head, trying to push away her doubts. She thought back once more to the conversation in the Hoover observation room.

"_Sometimes you have to help people against their wishes," Gordon Gordon had told her._

"_I can't think of anything I wouldn't do to help him." _

She knew that she had to do this for him. _That's why I made this call in the first place, right? To get help for Booth..._

"Okay," she said with a slow nod into the phone. She continued to watch the airmen across the street continue to diligently unload the van with dolly trucks.

"Has he mentioned having obtrusive memories or flashbacks?" Gordon Gordon asked.

"Yes," she whispered. "He—"

She hesitated, suddenly unsure as to what her actual objective was in making this phone call. Dialing up Gordon Wyatt that morning was a rare act of impulse for her, something she had done with a slight tremble in her fingers and the salt of her tears. She had needed someone to help her figure out how to help Booth, terrified as she was to face the situation alone—though, she recognized that, somewhere deep down, a part of her wanted to run away, not because the challenges she was facing in dealing with Booth, but rather because she felt the whole situation, and all the pain that Booth was feeling, was really one of her own making. _This—all of this, _she noted grimly, _is really my fault, isn't it? Had I not pushed him away on the steps of the Hoover that night when Booth asked me to 'give this a shot,' then he wouldn't have reenlisted in the Army, he wouldn't have deployed to Afghanistan, and he wouldn't have been sitting in that building when those two helicopters went down. He wouldn't have been tied up in the whole mess, or tying himself up in figurative knots about its resultant consequences. This is all my fault. All of it. Every damn bit of it._

Brennan swallowed and sighed. She squeezed the bridge of her nose and tried to let go of the meddlesome thoughts as she exhaled a long breath. _I can't deal with this right now, _she told herself. _I have to help Booth._

"I'm not a psychologist, but—"

"Dr. Brennan," Gordon Gordon said, his voice low and patient. "I know it's asking you to betray your inner nature, really, but maybe this once, just tell me what's going on. Don't do the analyzing this time—just tell me what you have observed, or what he has told you. You know, just give me the facts."

"Okay," she said, breathing another sigh as she tried to let go of her hesitancy. "Booth suffered a head injury in the accident. Not a severe one, but it was a serious concussion, and afterwards, he experienced retrograde amnesia, so that he found himself unable to remember events in the weeks leading up to the accident." She paused, running her hand through her hair. "These memories are coming back to him, spontaneously, a bit at a time—in what Booth calls _dribs _and _drabs_—and the rate at which he is recovering these memories seems to have accelerated over the last several days."

"I would consider this to be a positive development," Gordon Gordon said. "But there's something else, isn't there?"

"I'm not sure," Brennan admitted. "I don't know." She was briefly startled by the sound of the cargo van's rear doors slamming outside of her window. "He has not been particularly forthcoming with me about a lot of the memories he is having, but I suspect that some of the ones that are coming back are not pleasant. And…"

Her voice trailed off again. "I don't know," she said glumly. "I don't know how to help him, and I didn't know who to go to for help. You know him well, and have treated him in the past, and he trusts you, and—I don't know." She shook her head and sniffed, her eyes welling up again as she felt the overwhelming sense of inadequacy flood over her. "I don't know what I need to do to help him and I don't think that I can do it alone. I'm afraid—"

"Can I tell you something, Dr. Brennan?"

The line went silent for several long, static-washed seconds. She noted the crackle of white noise and, for reasons she could not articulate, the interference made her feel even more alone and farther from home than she did before.

"You recall how I had a brief but mildly notable stint as a rock guitarist?" he asked.

Brennan laughed. "Yes—Noddy Comet, correct?"

"Yes, indeed," he chuckled. "I was seventeen when I started playing in a band in the clubs on London's East End, and did fairly well for a couple of years—well enough to keep myself in a decent flat. But then, 1980 devolved into 1981, and by the end of that year, the whole glam rock scene had wholly played itself out on the East End." He paused, fairly certain that Brennan had no idea what he was speaking of. "Well, after my musical career began to falter, and having no real desire at that point to go to university, I found myself up visiting my family in Plymouth, sitting at the local pub next to a British Army recruiter and—you know how these things go, of course—so the next thing I knew, I'd signed up to join the Cheshire Regiment, light infantry, and six months later was posted with the rest of my battalion to County Derry in Northern Ireland."

"So this was in 1982?" Brennan asked, temporarily distracted from her worry and angst by his story.

"Precisely," he said. "Miserable place it was, especially in the middle of the recession that Britain was suffering from in the early 80s. Londonderry was bursting at the seams with desperately miserable people, with so many men out of work. With the Troubles going on, the horror of the situation was made just that much worse—amplified, really—by the fact that no legitimate capitalist enterprise would actually want to start up any venture in the troubled areas of Ulster."

"What did you do in the Army?" she asked.

"To be perfectly honest?" he said. "I foot-patrolled by day the streets of Londonderry, smoked like a fiend and drank myself silly each night. That's what most of us did. But the simple answer to your question is, I was a plain foot soldier in a rifle company. What Booth would call a ground-pounder, a trigger-puller. Nothing exotic."

"Booth takes a lot of pride in being involved with the elite units that he has been part of," Brennan noted. "Like the Special Forces unit that…well, that he was in."

"Indeed," Gordon Gordon agreed, silently noting her use of tense. "As well he should." He fell silent for a moment, then continued. "So, that first weekend of December of 1982, I had secured a weekend pass to go back to England for my sister's wedding. That Monday, December 6th, there was a bombing at a nightclub, the Droppin Well, where a lot of us Cheshires would hang out on nights and weekends. Eleven British soldiers were killed in the bombing, eight of them Cheshires, plus six civilians. More than two dozen were injured, some of them quite gravely."

"I'm sorry," Brennan said. "Did you know any of the men that were killed?"

"Yes," he said. "Five of them were in my company. When I got back to Derry and the Shackleton Barracks after my sister's wedding, the unit was a mess. Men were angry, furious, confused, depressed. I remember sitting in the barracks about a week after the bombing, playing cards with some of the other lads, and one of the lads accused another of cheating, and a fight broke out. It seemed to me then, though I was just twenty years old then, that the fight between these men—who were mates, close friends actually—had nothing whatsoever to do with the card game we were playing. It had everything to do with the fact that they hadn't worked through what had happened to the men in our company who were killed or injured in the bombing of the Droppin Well."

Brennan nodded silently.

"I left the army three years later at the end of my term of enlistment, and went to university. I went into psychology and later psychiatry in no small part because of the experience I had watching my fellow Cheshires deal with the effects of the Droppin Well bombing."

"I had no idea," she admitted. "Does Booth know that—?"

"He knows I did a four-year stint in the British Army, and that I served in Northern Ireland," Gordon Gordon said. "We never discussed the Droppin Well because, frankly, I never brought it up."

"Booth needs help," Brennan said, her voice rising at the end of her statement. Her nostrils burned and she felt tears pricking at her eyes once more as she turned away from the bright sunlight that blazed through the window. "But I don't know how to help him."

"I surely don't need to tell you this, because I know you've probably spent the last week researching this in your own diligent fashion, but your partner is presenting all the classic criteria for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder."

_My partner, _Brennan thought to herself. _He is my partner, isn't he? And now, instead of being 'just partners,' we are partners. _"PTSD," she whispered, blinking a couple of times. She took a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling, her heart sinking and a heavy wave of nausea pulsing through her gut at hearing Gordon Gordon confirm what she had for days suspected was the case.

"You know, Dr. Brennan, the U.S. Army has established in the last couple of years several programs aimed at encouraging active duty soldiers to seek psychological support—"

Brennan stood up and walked once more over to the window, leaning against the wall where Booth had stood in the moonlight. "I already suggested to him that he see about getting some kind of help," she said, "but he refuses. He won't do it." The two airmen with their cargo van had pulled away some minutes earlier, and she found herself staring at an empty loading dock, the whitewashed concrete of the platform blazing under the midmorning sun.

"Which does not particularly surprise me," he said. "Agent Booth's always been a bit of a lone rider, hasn't he?"

"I don't know what that means," she said, leaning her head to the side as she looked out the window, gazing down the road as if half-expecting Booth's white Land Cruiser to come driving up at that moment.

Gordon Gordon laughed knowingly. "He isn't the type who normally asks for help, isn't that right?"

"No," she shrugged. "I suppose not. He's very independent in that way."

"But if you suggested that he get some expert help, he might consider it," he said. "Perhaps if you couched it in terms of—"

Brennan cut him off. "Am I safe to presume that the content of this conversation is confidential?" she asked.

"Of course," he replied immediately. "But—why? I am no longer actively engaged in the practice of psychiatry or psychological counseling. I consider this a conversation between friends, Dr. Brennan."

"Yes, of course," she said. "I'm sorry, it's just…well, I'm not certain how to say this, but—"

"Then just say it," Gordon Gordon said, his voice patient but firm.

"The helicopter crash," she said, her voice falling to a whisper. "The U.S. Army's official explanation is that it resulted from pilot error, and the two aircraft collided in midair over the town of Marjeh."

"But—?"

Brennan closed her eyes and sighed. "Booth thinks at least one of the aircraft was hit by some kind of surface-to-air weapon, maybe a rocket-propelled grenade."

"He thinks the Army is deliberately concealing the true nature of the accident?"

"Yes," she whispered. "Although he won't tell me this, I have to wonder if part of the reason he is reticent about seeking assistance from the Army apparatus about his—well, his symptoms—is that he doesn't trust the Army."

"Oh," Gordon Gordon said quietly. "That is a quite a scrummy conundrum, isn't it?"

Brennan cocked an eyebrow.

"On top of all of the other difficulties he's having to deal with," he explained. "The one institution which is best-equipped to assist him in overcoming his present difficulties is the one he is least willing to trust."

A look of silent, solemn recognition crossed Brennan's face, and for several long moments she held her silence. "So what do I do to help him?" she asked, her voice wavering as she stared out the window. "Will you—would you be willing to talk to him?"

"I would," Gordon Gordon said warmly. "And I will. But I'm not sure I'm exactly what he needs under the present circumstances." The line crackled impatiently as another long pause hung between them. "He needs to talk to someone who's been there," he said. "Who's been where he is."

Brennan frowned and rubbed her temples with her free hand.

"Given what you've just explained," he said. "It needs to be someone who is not affiliated with the U.S. military."

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><p><strong>AN**: _I love Gordon Wyatt. Don't you? So, is he going to be able to help Booth, or Brennan for that matter? _::chews fingernails:: _If not him, then who? _::chews fingernails some more::

_Do you want more? I sure want to give you more. In fact, I'm dying to tell you the rest of this story._

_This chapter in particular was difficult to write because, well, because Booth is easy for me to write. Brennan, not so much. So, please, **please, ****PLEASE**—don't read and run. __**Tell me what you think.** _

_So, please, press that little review button and do your thing._

_Thanks!_

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><p><strong>Editorial note:<strong>_ The Droppin Well bombing referenced is a very real event that occurred just as described. Many British men of GGW's generation would have served in Northern Ireland during the Troubles (1966-1998)._


	18. A Needle in a Haystack

**Killing Two Birds**

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><p><strong>By:<strong> dharmamonkey  
><strong>Rated:<strong> M  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> _Hart Hanson owns _Bones_. But people like me who play in his sandbox give you all those delicious little moments that Hart and friends leave out. In this case, AU do-overs for that gap between Seasons 5 and 6 that wrought so much havoc for our heroes. That's why you read fanfic._

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><p><strong><span>AN:**

1) **Military acronyms/terminology: **_New mom (hello, Lucas!) and a great writer in her own stead (and writer of the awesomely amusing reviews ever), the incomparable Crayon Clown noted that I'm using some acronyms/lingo the meaning of which may not be immediately evident. Here are some you'll want to take note of because they show up in this chapter:_

**NCOIC: **Non-commissioned officer in charge

**IED: **Improvised explosive device

2) **Reader response**: _Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed, especially all those first time reviewers and de-lurkers. I'm so thrilled that everyone is enjoying this piece. If you're reading this far "in" and you still haven't left a review, please, PLEASE consider doing so. _**Remember****: the only "revenue" I get from writing fanfic is the psychic revenue I get from reader reviews.**_ So, please, throw me a bone, will ya? Leave a review._

3) **Kleenex warning****: **_This chapter is very, very emotional. Those inclined to cry might consider keeping a box of Kleenexes handy._

_Alright, without further ado, let's go back to Bagram._

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><p><strong>Chapter 18: A Needle in a Haystack<strong>

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><p>Brennan and Wendell stood shoulder to shoulder leaning over one of the steel tables examining a set of remains under one of the magnifying lamps. They were so deeply focused on their work that they didn't hear Booth come in, and for a minute or so he just stood at a distance, watching and listening in silence, but unwilling to come a single step closer.<p>

Wendell pointed a gloved finger at a rib where it connected to the spine. "See," he said, turning to Brennan and then pointing to two other ribs. "This is what I was talking about, the pitting here on the heads and costal grooves of the fifth, sixth and seventh ribs." He reached for an x-ray. "And you can see…here, here, here and here—" He pointed to small, bright inclusions on the image. "Clearly metal by the way it shows up on the radiograph. Some of the shapes look like screws—see the way this one almost looks like it has threads on it?" Wendell took a breath and shook his head, trying to imagine the pain that this person must have felt in the wake of such an injury. "Dispersal pattern and degree of penetration into the bone tissue is consistent with a high-velocity explosion. Degree of remodeling suggests the injury occurred thirty-six to forty-eight months prior to death."

Brennan leaned in and looked closer. "Hmmm," she murmured noncommittally.

She pulled away and picked up the spreadsheet that Booth had prepared for them, listing all of the deceased personnel including a column with a short summary of the major injuries each of them had suffered in the service. She scanned the far right column and nodded when Wendell's finger settled on a particular entry.

"I concur, Mr. Bray," she said, quickly skimming the rest of the entries. "That's the only set of costae among the twenty-four that indicate pitting and embedded foreign material consistent with exposure to explosive-propelled shrapnel to the back."

"Okay," Wendell said, glancing at the skull that lay nearby. "I took x-rays this morning and compared them to the dentals we had in the file, and I was able to confirm identity on the skull." He held the x-ray film up to the light and pointed at a couple of bright spots indicative of fillings, then showed her the corresponding points on the print-out in the file. He stared at Brennan for several long moments as her eyes scanned the x-ray and the dental records. "I think this is enough to confirm conclusively that this is Staff Sergeant Michael Swann."

"Agreed," she said tersely. "More body bags were delivered this morning. Please prepare the remains for transfer to the 54th Quartermaster Company, and I'll inform Booth."

They looked up and saw Booth standing about ten feet away holding a cardboard tray with three large cups of hot McDonalds coffee. His face was drawn, his mouth hanging open as his brown eyes stared, wide, imprecise and unblinking, at the skeleton on the table.

Brennan peeled off her gloves and let them fall to the floor as she walked towards him, taking the tray of coffees from his hands. "Booth—" He blinked once and swiveled his head to meet her gaze, his mouth opening and closing slowly though no words fell from his lips. She set the coffee down on the table next to his laptop and reached for his hand. "We can send him home now," she said quietly. "Swann can go home."

Booth squeezed her hand and nodded, turning his head as he tried to blink away the dampness in his eyes. "Okay," he whispered.

She raised her eyebrows expectantly, covering his hand with hers so that his hand was clasped between her palms. "I'm sorry, Booth."

He averted his eyes for several more seconds before glancing down at his feet and looking up again.

"It's okay," he said quietly.

Booth sucked in a sharp breath as he heard Wendell zip up the black vinyl bag that would convey Swann on the first stage of his journey home. He turned around and walked over to the table that held Swann's bagged remains. Wendell looked up at him with a soft-mouthed, wide-eyed expression of sympathy and stepped away from the table, giving him some space to pay his last respects. Booth placed his hand on the edge of the table, his fingers just inches away from the flat edge of the vinyl bag that held his comrade's remains.

_Booth sat on the edge of his bunk, his eyes closed as he rubbed the back and sides of his head with his hands. Around him, he listened to the sounds of the men packing their gear, checking and rechecking their packs and duffels, sending text messages, talking on their phones, syncing up their mp3 players and making other last-minute preparations before beginning the series of long-haul flights that would take them to Afghanistan. _

_He felt a deep sense of dread and foreboding along with an ample measure of regret. He was certain he had made a big mistake—a whole series of them, if he were being perfectly honest. He cringed to think of how badly he'd fucked everything up, starting with letting Sweets goad him into propositioning Bones into taking a chance on a relationship, knowing as he did that there was no sense trying to rush her on anything, never mind something like that. Then, when she said no, he gave up. Did he give up too easily? Should he have fought harder to make her understand? And Maluku—should he have tried to talk her out of going? Booth's mind swirled with a hundred flailing tendrils of regret as he sat on the edge of a crappy mattress in the middle of Alpha 3623's barracks, biding his time with his men as the last few hours ticked away before he'd ship out to Afghanistan._

"_You okay there, Sergeant Major?" Swann asked, zipping up his assault pack and leaning it against the foot of his bunk before looking over to Booth. _

"_Yeah, kid," Booth said. "I'm fine. You ready there, Swann?" he asked, studying the young man's face. "Ready to do this thing, huh?"_

_Swann shrugged. "Yeah," he replied. "I guess so. It's not my first rodeo, though." Something chirped and he reached into his thigh pocket, retrieving his cell phone and glancing briefly at the screen. "My girlfriend," he explained with a lopsided grin, thumbing back a text message before sliding his phone back into his pocket. "She just moved back in with her mom and dad in Davenport, about an hour south of where my folks live in Dubuque."_

"_You miss her?" Booth asked, a sympathetic smile on his lips._

"_Like fuckin' crazy, Sergeant Major," he answered quickly, blushing at making the admission to his NCOIC, seventeen years his senior. "When we get back, I'm gonna marry her." His face broke into a wide, proud smile. "I already have the ring," he added, flashing his eyebrows with a grin._

"_That's great," Booth said with a smile, a slight twitch in his eye the only sign of his wistfulness._

"_You got someone, Sergeant Major?" Swann asked. "Guy like you—good lookin', built like a brick shithouse, surely you've got a sweet somebody waitin' for you back home."_

_Booth blinked and his gaze fell to his lap. "It's kind of complicated," he said, his low voice nearly a mumble. _

"_Why?" Swann asked innocently. _

_Booth shook his head and rubbed the razor-short hair on the back of his head, a gesture that had become a nervous habit since his induction back into the Army. Even during his two days of pre-deployment leave—when he went back up to Washington to see Parker one last time—every time he raised his hand to run his fingers through his hair, he felt physically marked by the Army. Even Rebecca noticed and commented on it._

"_We work together," Booth said quietly. "She's concerned that, um, they won't let us work together if we're, you know, together."_

_Swann quirked an eyebrow, surprised to hear his cocksure, battle-hardened Sergeant Major speak in such a tentative way. "I don't understand. Who won't let you work together?"_

_With a deep sigh, Booth said, "The FBI." He chewed his lip. "She thinks they won't let us work together if we're in a relationship. I'm not sure, because we have the highest homicide solve rate in the Bureau, and I don't think the Deputy Director's gonna split up his best team, but she's…anyway, it's complicated—" He shook his head and sighed again._

"_You work for the FBI, dude?" Swann asked, the broad smile returning to his face. "That's so bad ass."_

_Booth's eyes brightened a bit at the remark. "It is, isn't it?" he said with a cocky grin._

"_Dude, that's so cool," the young sergeant said, unable to wipe the admiring grin off his face. "What do you do for the FBI?"_

"_I'm a Special Agent in the Major Crimes Division of the Washington, D.C. field office," Booth explained. "My caseload is mostly homicides, a few kidnappings here and there. Federal jurisdiction, right? So stuff in the District of Columbia, national parks and other federal lands, anything that looks like it involves kidnapping across state lines, offenses against federal employees or federal instrumentalities, you know." The young sergeant nodded. "I work closely with a team of forensic scientists at the Jeffersonian in D.C. who go through the evidence. They're pretty amazing people—mega-geniuses, all of them—and they can find a needle in a haystack of evidence, right? Dirt, mud, trace evidence like blood and stuff, particulates, and all that, and when all that's left of the victim is their bones, they can figure out who he or she was, the kind of life they lived, how they died, and ninety-five times out of a hundred, who killed 'em."_

"_That's so awesome," Swann said. "You sound like you really like your job," he observed. He thought for a moment then arched his eyebrow, his forehead crinkling in confusion. "So, with all due respect, Sergeant Major, why the fuck are you back in the Army? You've been out for a while now."_

"_Ten years," Booth said. He swallowed and cocked his head with a flash of his eyebrows. _That's the core question, isn't it? _he thought grimly. "It's complicated, too," he said, glancing over at a pair of staff sergeants sitting on their bunks across the aisle playing five card stud. "My partner, you see, she's an anthropologist, and after we had this really crazy serial killer case wrap up recently, she decided she needed a break from the murder and mayhem. So she's in Indonesia on a dig looking for prehistoric man."_

_Swann sat back and leaned against the steel frame that held up the bunk above his. "She's the one who makes all this complicated?" he asked. Booth nodded with a shrug. Swann looked at him for a minute and said, "You're in love with her."_

_Booth leaned his head back and sighed. "Yeah," he admitted. "But she doesn't love me back."_

_Swann scratched his chin. "How do you know that?" he asked. "Did she actually tell you that?" _

_Booth narrowed his eyes and looked away. "No," he whispered. "But I would know if she loved me."_

"_Maybe she does but she's just not ready to tell you," Swann offered. Booth stared at him, amazed that this Iowa farm kid, all of twenty-two years old, seemed to have drilled down to the heart of the matter after three minutes better than he himself had managed to have done after five years. "If you love her, I mean really love her, maybe you just need to be patient."_

_Booth drew another heavy sigh. "I've been patient for three, four years," he said glumly. _

"_But you still love her?" Swann asked._

"_Yeah," Booth admitted. "Yeah, I really do."_

"_It'll work out, Sergeant Major," the young man said with a serious expression in his hazel eyes. "I can feel it."_

"_You can feel it?" Booth narrowed his eyes a little and smirked. "You have a lot of faith there, kid."_

_Swann smiled and shrugged. "Yes, Sergeant Major, I do," he said. "The good Lord saved me from an IED in Ramadi—I mean, I got hit, but I made it, you know. Still got a little bit of metal in me, but I do alright anyhow." He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, swiped the screen a couple of times and handed it to Booth, who held it up and looked at the image of the blue-eyed girl with freckles and strawberry-blonde hair. _

"_That's Sarah. The good Lord saved her, too, when an oversized tractor-trailer hauling a big steel tower had a pin break on the trailer and the whole thing jackknifed in the middle of the state highway, right in front of her truck. She didn't have time to hit the brakes or swerve out of the way. She might have gotten killed, but all she got was a broken arm." He reached out and took back his phone, letting his eyes linger on the image for a few seconds before locking the screen and sliding the phone back into his pocket. _

"_God's got a plan for me, Sergeant Major. I think he's got a plan for you and that scientist friend of yours. Sometimes God's plan for us takes a little while to work itself out. God's not running things on our timeline, but instead on His, right?"_

"_True," Booth said._

"_You got a picture of her?" Swann asked. Booth narrowed his eyes skeptically. Seeing his big-city NCOIC's expression harden, the young man quickly raised his hand in reassurance. "I mean, so when I pray for you guys, I can have her face in my mind's eye." He tapped his temple with a curved finger. _

_Booth's tense jaw softened and he reached into his pocket to pull out his own phone. He pressed a couple of buttons and pulled up the picture of Brennan he had attached to her phone book entry, then handed the phone to Swann._

"_Wow," Swann whispered, holding the handset at an angle to avoid the glare of the barracks' fluorescent lights. "She's really gorgeous." He looked up at Booth with raised eyebrows. "I mean, seriously gorgeous. Wow."_

"_Yeah," Booth laughed. "She is."_

"_I think things will work out for you two," Swann said, handing the phone back to Booth. "I'm pretty sure of it."_

Booth looked down at the black vinyl bag and blinked, tears spilling from his eyes as he thought about the gentle-mannered kid who became his first friend in Alpha 3623. He stroked the edge of the vinyl bag and looked over his shoulder where Brennan stood at an adjacent table, typing something on her laptop. Their eyes met and she smiled faintly, but did not move to approach him. He nodded once and she responded in kind before returning her attention to whatever it was she was working on, her fingers flying effortlessly over the keys as her eyes darted back and forth across the screen. Booth watched her for several long moments, his eyes falling to the notch at the base of her neck.

"_I love this little place," he told her, stroking his forefinger there before placing a soft kiss over the silky, ivory skin. "God, I just love it."_

"_It's the suprasternal notch," she said with a husky giggle. "In Latin, it's called the fossa jugularis sternalis." She rolled her head to the side as he began to place wetter, more insistent kisses along the line of her collarbone, puffs of his breath streaming from his nostrils and warming the smooth skin on her neck._

"_I love it when you talk dirty to me," he chuckled between kisses._

"_Of course you do," she replied, her voice low and her words swallowed up by a laugh as she rolled him over on his back. "What else do you love?" she asked with a crooked, sexy grin. "Tell me."_

"_I love you," he whispered as she lifted herself up on her hands and lowered herself onto him. "Every damn bit of you," he moaned, sucking in a breath as he felt her open up like a flower around him._

Brennan looked up again, meeting his gaze with her pale gray eyes and a soft smile. She saw his hand, rolling the corner of the vinyl bag between his fingers, and she bit back a sigh as she watched his eyes. She raised her eyebrows as if to ask him, _are you okay? _He nodded, then turned away again.

"I'm sorry, Swann," he whispered to the body bag, his voice breaking as his eyes welled up again. "I'm sorry this happened to you, and the other guys. I'm sorry I was—I'm sorry I wasn't able to save you from this." He rolled his lips together tightly and shook his head. "I wrote another letter, buddy. For your girl. I'll read it to you."

He walked over to the table that was his little office, where he had the service records and his Army laptop. He opened one of the manila folders and pulled out an envelope, then walked back over to Swann's body bag.

_Dear Sarah,_

_My name is Sergeant Major Seeley J. Booth, and I served with your boyfriend, Staff Sergeant Michael Swann for six and a half months, first at Ft. Bragg and later in Afghanistan. I know that there's not much I can say to you to make you feel his loss any less. Mike, even though he was a junior sergeant, became my first friend when I joined his unit at Ft. Bragg a few weeks before we all deployed to Afghanistan, and over the course of the almost seven months we spent together, I came to care very deeply for him. He was a brave, bright man, gentle and decent, and over the months I served with him, I came to think of him as a little brother. Mike loved you very much, and was always talking about how excited he was to get back to you so you two could get on to building your life together. He believed in love, and had a deep abiding faith that true love was cosmic and transcendent. Although he is no longer with us, and my heart breaks for you, I came to believe that he was right, and that true love is transcendent. I know that his love for you and the things you shared together will always be a part of you, for all the rest of the days of your life. _

_I will pray every night that God give you the strength to endure and cherish the love you two had together, which love I believe transcends the boundaries of time and space that hold us in this world we live in. _

_Sincerely,_

_SGM Seeley J. Booth  
>United States Army<br>3rd Special Forces Group  
>(formerly NCOIC of Operational Detachment-Alpha 3623)<em>

_Bagram Airfield, Afghanistan_

"I'm sorry, buddy," Booth said to the body bag, patting his hand on the corner before turning and walking away, tears streaming down his face as he folded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope. "I'm so sorry," he sobbed as he sat down on his stool in front of his computer and the banker's box of personnel files, his head buried in his hand as his whole body shook. "I'm sorry…"

Brennan and Wendell watched him in silence, tears welling up in each of their eyes as they saw him, his hand gripping the side of his head with fingers that clawed the short hair on his temples. They looked at each other and back to Booth. For a couple of minutes, neither of them said anything.

"Dr. Brennan," Wendell said quietly. "I found a few more of those indications that you had asked me to look for in some of the remains from bags C, D and E."

Brennan rubbed the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. "We'll speak to Booth about it tomorrow," she said, her voice trembling as she watched her partner's hunched form shudder, silent but for the sound of muffled crying.

Wendell gave a single nod and closed his eyes. "Tomorrow," he whispered.

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><p><strong>AN****:** _Okay, I definitely cried writing the letter to Sarah. I have to suppose some of you did, too. This might be Booth's first full-on cry. What do you think? And what do you think Brennan and Wendell found that they need to tell Booth about?_

_Wouldn't you like to know? I'd love to tell you. I'm dying to tell you the rest of this story._

_A piece like this is emotionally demanding to write. I desperately need to know what you think of it. So, please,** tell me what you think.** Fuel my muse. Tell me what you think._

_Please leave a review. Or tell me on Twitter (_**_dharmamonkey**_)._

_Either way, thanks for reading!_


	19. Breaking Point

**Killing Two Birds**

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><p><strong>By:<strong> dharmamonkey  
><strong>Rated:<strong> M  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> _Hart Hanson owns _Bones_. But people like me who play in his sandbox give you all those delicious little moments that Hart and friends leave out. In this case, AU do-overs for that gap between Seasons 5 and 6 that wrought so much havoc for our heroes. That's why you read fanfic._

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><p><strong><span>AN:**

1) **Military acronyms/terminology**: _A reviewer noted that I'm using some acronyms/lingo the meaning of which may not be immediately evident. Here are some you'll want to take note of because they show up in this chapter:_

**Republican Guard: **_Elite component of Iraq's army under Saddam Hussein._

**Wadi: **_Not a military term, per se, but a term used in Arabic-speaking countries to describe a dry creek or river bed that fills with water on a seasonal basis; equivalent term in the American Southwest is an _arroyo_._

**BDUs:** _Battle Dress Uniform, the term used in the 1980s/1990s/early 2000s to describe the camouflaged fatigues soldiers wore in combat. _

**B-hut:** _Barracks hut, a primitive form of multiperson housing at Bagram Air Base, where individuals have small private rooms but share bathroom facilities._

**ACU:**_ Army Combat Uniform, successor to the BDU—the current generation of Army fatigues._

2) **Shout-out to my** **HHBs (hugely helpful betas)**: _This was a very difficult chapter to write. You will see why. I had to enlist some help._ **Lesera128** _stepped up and helped me hone in on Brennan's brainspace in this chapter. _**Jasper777** _helped me place the events of this chapter in the context of a PTSD sufferer's symptom trajectory._ _Loyal readers _**AvaniHeath** _and_ **sarahlizlangas** _reviewed rough, early partial drafts and gave me good feedback that kept me moving forward despite the bumps I encountered along the way. I'm indebted to all of them for their help._

_So, anyways—alright, without further ado, let's go back to Bagram._

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><p><strong>Chapter 19: Breaking Point<strong>

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><p>Brennan turned away from Wendell and walked over to Booth, a hard lump in her throat as she saw the agony he seemed to be experiencing. Each sob spilled from him in a low sound, nearly swallowed as he tried to silence the sound of his tears into an anguished growl, punctuated by an occasional hiss as he sucked in his breath through gritted teeth. His free hand cupped the back of his head as he hunched over the table, his curled fingers rending the quarter inch of brown hair that covered that part of his scalp.<p>

"Booth," she whispered as she took her place beside him. He turned his head away from her, his chin buried in his chest as he raised his casted hand, attempting to shield his face from her gaze. "I know this is very difficult for you," she said, leaning in close and gently nudging his casted arm away from his face. "Please, Booth, let's—"

"No," he groaned, his voice so choked and disembodied that even that one word was barely audible. "I'm sorry," he whispered as he turned his face even farther from her sight, and Brennan found herself unsure whether he was apologizing to Swann, the other deceased soldiers, or to her.

_Booth exhaled slowly as he focused his thoughts on slowing his heartbeat. Each breath seemed to expand to take up all of the slack in his mind and for a few moments he nearly forgot where he was. Then he heard fabric brushing against fabric, and the soft crunch of a boot sliding across sand, and he felt his heartbeat quicken._

"_Corporal," he hissed. "What's wrong?"_

"_Nothing," Parker whispered back. "It's just—"_

"_Simmer down there," Booth growled, never once moving his eye from its place behind the scope of his rifle. "Stay down, alright?"_

_Booth's nostrils flared as he felt his exhaling breath stream over his upper lip. He felt a wave of panic as the realization dawned on him that, while he had all the confidence in the world that he could take out the Republican Guard sniper, he was suddenly overcome with a dark, unshakeable sense of foreboding that he didn't understand. He took another long breath and held it for a couple of seconds before exhaling it again, turning the dial on the top of his scope to adjust for windage._

_Booth narrowed his eye slightly as he focused on the shadow in the distance. As the clouds parted in the sky above, he caught the moonlight briefly flash against the opposing sniper's scope. He began to gently squeeze the trigger when he felt a _fwip_ sound next to him and what sounded like a hard punch as Parker's shoulder twirled to the right, followed by a sharp gasp and the crack of the other sniper's rifle report._

"_Teddy!"_

_Booth reached over to Parker and rolled him onto his back as he ducked below the gently sloping rise of the irrigation canal. His heart pounded in his chest as he saw how much blood had already oozed through the corporal's desert camo BDUs. Taking a moment to wonder if the Iraqi sniper had already closed up shop on the other side of the _wadi_—guessing that, talented as he was, he probably had—Booth lifted Parker up and slung the injured man's left arm over his shoulder as he tried to get him to walk. Parker's knees sagged almost immediately, nearly a dead weight as he hung from Booth's shoulder, and it was clear that he had already lost enough blood that he was not going to be able to move under his own power. With a loud grunt, Booth picked him up and draped him over his shoulders in a fireman's carry._

"_Hang on, Teddy," he told him as he ran through the _wadi_, the inch-deep water splashing around his feet. "You're gonna make it…"_

"Booth," Brennan said, her voice low and comforting in his ear.

"No," he growled back, his head swiveling back so she saw his brown eyes pulse once and dilate as they darkened. "I couldn't save him," he whispered. "It's all my fault."

"You didn't do anything wrong, Booth," she said, her voice calm and even as she reached out and stroked her open palm over his bicep, just above his cast. "It's not your fault."

"I killed him," he murmured.

"Killed who?" she asked, rapidly feeling as if she were walking into minefield that she knew she needed to cross to survive and realizing that one single misstep could make things much, much worse for her—and quite probably, for both of them—than they currently already were. "Who, Booth?"

"I couldn't save him," he said in a low voice as he shook his head. "I wasn't strong enough, I wasn't good enough to save him. I just couldn't."

_Booth heard the chopper approach from a distance as he fell to his knees, letting Parker's limp body slide off his shoulders and onto the wet sand of the _wadi_. Booth knew he was already dead. He had felt the corporal's weak pulse flutter beneath his fingers as he ran through the _wadi_ to the extraction point until Booth could no longer feel it at all. By the time he'd laid Parker down in the sand, he knew he'd lost him. _

"_No," he whispered as he wiped the beads of sweat off Parker's cold, clammy forehead. "No…no…no…"_

_Parker's mouth hung open but the rise and fall of his chest had ceased, and Booth saw his hands laying, palms up, loosely open and still. _

_He looked up as the helicopter circled overhead, and he clenched his eyes shut as he howled in guilty anguish. "No—" _

"No!" his voice rumbled in his throat.

The single word was spoken as no more than a graveled epithet that Brennan struggled to hear. Leaning in closer to him, both needing and wanting to be close enough to hear him and help him, Brennan reached out for him.

"Booth?"

His head snapped up at the same time he swung his casted arm out in reflexive anger. "No!" he cried as he drew his arm back to his side, blinking in confusion as he felt a sharp tingle as if his hand had made contact with something solid. His mind sputtered as he saw Brennan bring her hand to her nose.

The movement caught Brennan completely by surprise. One moment, she felt Booth's bicep tense under her fingers and, before she realized it, she felt the hard fiberglass mesh scrape against the side of her nose as his casted fist struck her lateral nasal cartilage. She felt a sharp pain, and there was a moment of disconnect as she tried to process the sensations she was feeling: a gasp of air as she felt her balance shift as her head snapped back, the throbbing of her nose as the blood began to dribble out of her nostril, and her inability to breathe out of anything but her mouth as she struggled for air. For a second or two, she was stunned, then she realized that she'd been hit.

_He struck me,_ a calm and rational voice echoed in her mind in a clinical and detached manner. _He lifted his right arm and used enough force to cause me injury._

Then, almost as quickly, a second and more emotive response sounded in her head. _Son of a bitch…he hit me!_

Brennan felt her anger bubble up into her chest as she lifted her gaze to face him. He stared at her, his eyes wide and his nostrils flaring as his breath came in pants, his mouth hanging open as his lips quivered but he said nothing.

"Why did you do that?" she finally croaked. "Why?"

Booth stood there, stunned himself, his mind swirling as he felt a wave of lightheaded panic surge through him. He opened his mouth but found himself unable to speak. Instead, a single thought repeated over and over again in Booth's mind: _get her away from me, get her away from me, get her away from me._ Making good on the thought, Booth's body responded instinctively to Brennan's question by using his good hand to give her a hard shove.

As soon as he moved, all of Brennan's frustration surged, and in that moment she grabbed a fistful of the ripstop fabric of his jacket, shaking him with an angry grunt before she brought her hand back, clenched a hard fist, and struck him with as much force as she could in the gut.

"Goddamn it, Booth!" she hissed, grabbing him by both shoulders and shaking him as he bent over and struggled for breath himself. However, something then quickly shifted as she pulled him towards her and wrapped her arms around him in a tight embrace. "Damn you," she whispered as she watched his red-rimmed eyes well up with tears. She could taste the coppery tingle of her blood as it ran over her lip into her mouth. "Damn you, damn you, _damn you_."

_Oh, my God. What's happening…what's happened?_ she asked herself grimly. _What's happened to you, Booth? God. Oh, God―what's happened?_ She rolled her jaw from side to side. Her thoughts swirled and a sickening feeling filled her gut as she held him and instinctually used one hand to rub calming strokes up and down his back. _Oh, God, Booth―I don't know how or when it happened, but this is so much worse than I thought it was. I don't know what to do besides…away,_ she told herself. _I need to get you out of here. Right damn now._ She fisted his jacket, her knuckles turning white as she watched his eyes blink and tears drop onto his cheekbones as his mouth fell open in confused silence. _Right now._

Wendell's head suddenly snapped up from his work and he yanked the earbuds from his ears.

"Dr. Brennan!" he cried out, letting the x-ray he was holding fall to the floor as he ran towards her, wide-eyed with alarm at seeing his mentor standing there with blood streaming out of her nose.

"It's alright, Mr. Bray," she said, further tightening her hold on Booth's jacket as she stared hard into his bloodshot eyes. "I have the situation well under control―"

"But you're bleeding," Wendell pointed out, the worry clear in his eyes and bearing.

"I'm well aware of that, Mr. Bray, thank you," Brennan said. "Now, I need you to stay back, please."

"But―" Wendell looked into Booth's wide, red-rimmed, teary eyes and, after a moment of indecisive hesitation, he nodded, knowing that whatever it was that his friend needed then, it would have to be Brennan that did it for him, so he took a step back as he watched them with caution and grave concern.

"Stay _back!_" she barked. Then, softening her countenance, she leaned in towards her partner and lover and said quietly, "Booth? I need you to listen to me, okay?"

"I'm sorry," he blubbered, tears streaming down his face as he shook his head several times, looking away as he averted his eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Bones. I'm sorry…"

Brennan, sensing that the anger that had exploded just moments before had subsided under a crushing wave of guilt and sadness, cupped her hands around his jaw and raised his head so he would meet her gaze. "Listen," she said firmly, her voice low and rich in his ears. "I'm going to get you out of here now, okay? We're going to leave now, and go back to my quarters, alright?"

Booth nodded, his head bobbing in small, jerky, movements that were almost birdlike in their tentativeness as his eyes darted from side to side. He looked at her again, then away, then nodded once more. "Okay," he said, his voice choked and thick with tears.

"Please give me your car keys," she said, letting her hands fall away from his face as he hesitated, his brows working up and down as he blinked, trying to decide if he wanted to relinquish his keys.

"I don't—" He shook his head as he felt another wave of lightheadedness and nausea wash over him. "I, uh—"

"Booth," she whispered, holding her hand out in front of him expectantly. "Please…"

He reached into his left thigh pocket and pulled out his keys, closing his fist around them for a few seconds before opening his hand and offering them to her.

"Okay," Brennan said, closing her eyes briefly as she tried desperately to edit all emotion from her voice even though she felt like she was about to fall apart herself. "We're going to leave now." She turned to her protégé and, furrowing her brow, called out to him. "Mr. Bray—I need you to stay here and keep working. If—"

Wendell raised his hand and nodded slowly. "No problem, Dr. Brennan," he said, his voice unwavering despite the way his heart was pounding in his chest. "I'll stay here." He blinked, their eyes meeting briefly as they exchanged an unspoken understanding that whatever it was she needed to do with—or for—Booth, she had no idea how long it would take or when she would be back. "Go," he whispered to her with a vague jerk of his chin. _Take care of him,_ he added silently with a glance.

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><p>Booth sat down on the edge of the bed and slumped his shoulders, rubbing his eyes with his healthy hand and scratching the top of his head, his casted hand resting on his thigh which was bouncing up and down as he wiggled his injured arm restlessly.<p>

"Booth," Brennan said, taking a seat next to him on the bed as she came in from the bathroom where she had washed the blood off her nose, lips and chin. She wore a tank top, having peeled off her blood-stained henley shirt and tossed it in the bathtub. "I don't know how to say this," she said. "But—"

"I know," he said. She narrowed her eyes and cocked her head, raising her eyebrows expectantly as she watched him nibble at the inside of his lip. He rubbed the back of his head and shrugged. "I'm sorry, Bones. I'm really sorry."

"It's okay, Booth," she whispered. She looked away briefly as she tried to slow her racing thoughts, then turned back to face him. "Actually, it's not okay," she said, reaching for his hand.

"I know," he said grimly. "I'm sorry I hurt you, Bones. I—" He swallowed hard and sighed. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I—I don't know what happened, Bones. I—"

"You need to talk to someone, Booth," she said quietly, placing her hand on his knee.

He opened his mouth to speak and took a breath, but saw something flicker behind her cool, glistening gray eyes that made him hesitate. He sighed again and pursed his lips, stilling the nervous vibration of his right leg.

"I want to help you," she said. "And I will continue to help you, Booth, but you need more help than I can provide." She rolled her lips together as she gathered her thoughts. "You need to talk to someone, Booth, who can help you deal with—well, with all of what you've been through."

Booth shook his head fervently. "No," he said, raising his casted hand to indicate his objection before, realizing what he had just done, letting it fall again to his thigh. "No way," he repeated. "I don't want to talk to any Army shrinks, Bones. They're worse than Sweets—they either want to cobble you together well enough to justify on paper sending you back into combat, or else they will grind you up and get you labeled as some sort of fucked up, unstable nutwad so they can give you a less than honorable discharge. I don't want to see any Army shrinks, Bones." He gritted his teeth, wondering if he in fact had turned into an unstable nutwad. _God help me, _he prayed. "And you can forget about Sweets. No fuckin' way."

Brennan rubbed her hand over his knee and patted the inside of his thigh. "What about Gordon Gordon?" she asked. "Would you talk to _him_?"

Booth considered that for a few seconds, then arched an eyebrow. "He retired from psychiatry," he said. "He wouldn't do it anyway, Bones. He's got that restaurant to run, you know."

She took a breath and looked at him. The stitches along his temple were gone, and the laceration was already beginning to heal. The other cut along his eyebrow, the one that had been held together with a butterfly bandage when she arrived at Bagram from Maluku, was also healing well and appeared unlikely to leave much of a scar. She was still concerned about his arm, and the ulnar nerve dysfunction he was experiencing, but right then, his arm was the least of her concerns. Without a healthy mind, she knew, the rest of him would never be happy or healthy. _And, _she acknowledged silently, _if he isn't happy, then how can I be happy?_

"Booth," she said, bringing her right hand to his shoulder. "I spoke to Gordon Gordon this morning."

Booth narrowed his eyes. "What?" he croaked. "You mean, before—?" His face registered shock in his tense, gaping jaw and at that instant, he didn't know whether to be angry, insulted or grateful.

"Yes," she whispered. "I was worried about you, Booth," she said quickly, trying to fill the silence and say her piece before he could object. "I didn't know who to talk to, you know, who would understand. I didn't want to call Angela, or Sweets—" She saw Booth's lips turn at hearing the FBI psychologist's name. "I know that you found working with Gordon Gordon helpful, and you trust him. He's not affiliated with the FBI, nor does he have any relationship with the U.S. military, and—"

"You shouldn't have done that, Bones," he growled. "It wasn't your place."

"I love you, Booth," she explained. "You have, for all intents and purposes, moved in with me, and we share a bed. We are partners, Booth." She did not elaborate, instead letting the comment hang in the air for a few moments. "So I certainly do think it was my place."

His forehead creased as his eyebrows hung low and angry over his dark eyes. He thought about what she said, about how many nights he'd shared her bed, so many that it seemed like a lifetime ago that he had slept in his bunk in his assigned B-hut. He felt his heart skip a beat at the thought of returning to that bunk and spending his nights alone. _I can't lose her, _he told himself. _God, don't let me lose her. She's the only thing I have left. _He felt his breaths begin to rise and fall shallowly as a feeling of panic descended on him once more

"Booth," she said, frustration creeping into her voice. She took a deep, calming breath and added, "I know you don't want to do this. But you have to."

Booth leaned his head back and swallowed, jutting his lower jaw out as he thought about the days since he had awaken in the hospital at Bagram, an IV in each arm, hooked up to a heart monitor and with a blood oxygen sensor on his finger, with no idea how he ended up there. Since then, the memories—of the accident, and of the weeks and months before it, and of the men he had served with—had begun to return, sometimes in a trickle, at other times a steady stream, and then sometimes, when he least expected it, a violent gush of unwanted images, sounds and sensations. The dreams—the nightmares and the flashbacks—had become more intense and obtrusive in the last several days, troubling him on those nights when he managed to actually fall asleep. A couple of nights he found himself, even after making wonderful love with Brennan, laying there on his back in the dark, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep.

"You think he'll talk to me?" he asked, an uncertain lilt to his question.

Brennan smiled, the first time she had done so since—well, since before she hurried him off to his doctor's appointment early that morning. "Yes," she said. "Of course. He's willing to talk to you."

For a moment Booth thought back to the first time he had met Gordon Gordon, and how the clever English shrink had hoodwinked him into building him a brick barbecue behind his house as part of his 'therapy.'

He remembered the time they met at the Founding Fathers, the two of them seated at a table in the corner, talking over a couple of pints of beer—Gordon Gordon drinking a Newcastle, what he called a "Newkie Brown," and Booth a Yuengling draft—after Booth had sought out a sounding board after a difficult interrogation went particularly badly.

After a couple of pints turned into three, and then four, Gordon Gordon let it slip that he had done a four year hitch in the British Army, serving several tours of duty in Northern Ireland in the early 1980s. While, admittedly, it wasn't the same kind of combat experience that Booth had gone through in his years with the 101st, then the Rangers, and now Special Forces, it was _something_, and Booth wondered if it meant that Gordon Gordon—having himself patrolled streets surrounded by suspicious civilians some of whom supported the irregular campaign against him and his fellow soldiers—might be able to relate a little bit to the situation in Afghanistan.

Booth blinked, certain the English shrink would have a better shot at understanding what had happened than a naive twelve year-old like Sweets whose closest encounter with combat was playing _Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six_ on his Xbox.

"Okay," Booth sighed. "Alright. I'll do it." He felt the heavy fog of panic begin to lift a little as the words left his mouth.

"Good," Brennan said, leaning in and kissing his shoulder. "I'm glad." He rolled his shoulder slightly at the sensation of her kiss, then turned his head, smiling faintly at the gesture as a niggling sensation of worry crept back over him.

"But, um—" he murmured.

"But what?" she asked, her brow knit in concern.

Booth hesitated, something he didn't understand quivering inside of him as he felt the weight of her gaze. He opened his mouth to speak but once again found the words had fled him.

"What is it?" she asked again.

He shook his head. "It's…well, it's just that—" His voice trailed off rapidly as he once more felt unable to articulate the maelstrom of feelings that swirled inside of him. _I don't know…God, I can't lose her…not now, not after all that has happened. Please, God. Please…_

"I'm afraid," he mumbled.

Brennan tilted her head and looked at him curiously. "What are you afraid of?" she asked.

Booth felt his stomach clench in a knot and his bowels flash with a wave of nausea as the worry that had niggled at him for the past few minutes threatened to surge into panic again. He abruptly stood up and walked over to the chest of drawers and looked at himself in the mirror hung above it. He didn't even recognize his own face. Where was the smirking, confident-as-hell, snarky cop he used to be? Where was the even-keeled, steady, reliable friend who other people used to come to for advice? Where was the patient, encouraging, devoted dad? _Who am I anymore?_ he asked. _Where did the man I used to be go?_

"I'm afraid I can't do this," he said morosely. "I'm afraid that I won't be able to get better." He rubbed the back of his head again, once more expressing the nervous tic. "I…I'm afraid I'll always be this way."

A silence hung between them for several long moments while Brennan processed what he had said and tried to determine the best way to respond. She stood up and walked up to him, standing behind him and putting her hands on his hips, her chin resting on his shoulder as she looked into the mirror, their eyes meeting in the reflection.

"You can do this," she said, her voice warm. "You'll get better, Booth."

He turned his head and looked at her out of the corner of his eye. "You must hate me."

She pulled her head away slightly and shook her head. "No," she whispered. "I don't hate you. I love you, Booth."

"I don't understand how you can possibly love me after what I did to you today," he said, his voice dark with self-loathing.

She pursed her lips, then bent her head down and kissed the back of his shoulder. "I don't understand how I can possibly not love you after all you've done for me, Booth." She brushed her nose across the back of his neck. "I love you. I want to help you, but you need to help me help you, and help me get you real, qualified help."

"I hit you," he whispered. "You can't love me after that." He dug his fingertips into the back of his scalp. "You can't."

"I _do_ love you after that," she said. "I loved you this morning, I love you now, and I will love you when all of this is behind us."

"But I hit you," he said, repeating the words as if they were unreal. "I _hit _you."

"You did," Brennan acknowledged, squeezing his right shoulder gently. "I am not sure that I understand why you did that, Booth, but I know you did not do it to hurt me. I love you, Booth, and I know you love me. Whatever is hurting you is what made you hurt me. You did not do this to hurt me. I know that."

Booth's head fell to his chest and he sighed. "I do love you," he said, his voice cracking as he sucked in a breath to ward off the tears he felt pricking at his eyes again. "I love you more than anything, Bones."

"I know," she replied, nuzzling the back of his shoulder.

"I'm so afraid," he whispered. "I'm—" He drew a heavy breath. "I know I need to do this, to get help, for you and for Parker's sake. But I'm afraid that I am not gonna be able to do it, that—"

Brennan looked up from his shoulder and snaked her arm around his chest, lifting his chin gently so that he could meet her eyes in the mirror. "Don't do this for me or for Parker, Booth," she said. "Do it for _you_."

"I don't know if I can," he said. "I just—"

She hugged him firmly from behind. "Do you trust me?" she asked. "Do you?"

Booth swallowed. "Yes," he whispered, placing his hand over hers as they covered his navel. He squeezed her hand and then unclasped her hands as he turned around to face her once more. "Yes," he said firmly. "I trust you with my very life."

A smile flashed across Brennan's lips as she closed her eyes and nodded. "Then trust me when I say that I know you can do this," she said. "It's not going to be easy, Booth. It's going to be very difficult, probably the most difficult thing you've ever done, but I know you can do this." Seeing doubt flicker behind his glistening brown eyes, she raised her hands up to cup his jaw, stroking his cheeks with her thumbs. "You are the strongest, most courageous, most honorable, most decent man I know," she told him. "There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that you can do this, Booth. You can do this."

Booth lowered his head and smiled hesitantly. "I don't deserve you," he said, his voice nearly liquid with emotion.

"Yes, you do," Brennan replied. "We deserve each other, Booth." She was not exactly sure what that meant, but the words fell naturally from her lips, and in that moment, she felt that they were honestly tendered, even if their significance puzzled her. "You have helped me so many times, Booth. I cannot even begin to enumerate all of the times that I've felt confused or overwhelmed or angry about something and you've been there to help me make sense of it all. It is only meet that I be able to help you now, if you'll let me."

"Yes," he said with a nod, bringing his forehead down to rest against hers. "Do you really think I can do it?" he asked, shivering a little in the wake of the raw emotions he felt.

"Without question," she answered, tilting her head and angling her mouth over his, hesitating for a moment before kissing him. His lips clutched at hers as he kissed her back, then she pulled away slightly. "You can do this, Booth. You can do it."

"You'll help me, right?" he asked, his eyes wide and vulnerable. "And what if I don't? Will you love me anyways?"

"You _will_," Brennan assured him. "But I will love you no matter what happens, Booth."

Booth blinked, his mouth hanging open slightly as he brushed his lips against hers. "Really?"

"Yes," she replied. "Do you want me to prove it to you?"

He saw her mouth break into a half-grin, the one he loved so much, and he laughed a little at remembering the way he had said that to her in his coma dream—suddenly realizing that the details of that strange, almost mystical dream and the days that followed his emergence from his coma were now clearer to him than they had been since before the chopper crash.

"Yeah," he said. "If you're not—"

"I'm not," she answered, cutting him off with a kiss.

Their mouths crashed together as Brennan drew his face to hers and kissed him with a tenderness that, after a few moments of the glancing of tongues, yielded to hunger. After she pulled her lips away from his, she undressed him, gingerly parting the Velcro flap of his ACU jacket, unzipping it as she helped him shrug out of it. He sat back on the bed and let her take off his boots, socks, bloused ACU trousers and his briefs. He crawled back onto the bed, crablike in his movements, watching in silence as she her took off her clothes, mesmerized at the way her skin glowed, its ivory hue tinted faintly gold by the Indonesian sun, tiny freckles dotting her shoulders, arms and upper chest. He watched her, transfixed by the gentle sway of her breasts as she reached down, toed out of her slip-on shoes and removed her trousers.

"You're beautiful," he whispered to her as she crawled onto the bed.

She lay down between his feet as she cupped his balls and took his half-hard length into her mouth, tracing her tongue along the underside as she dragged her upper lip carefully over the vein that ran alongside the top. She felt him harden in her mouth, lengthening and thickening between her lips, as he groaned approvingly, rolling his head back as his fist gripped the sheets of their bed, which was still unmade, the sheets still creased from when he had awoken that morning sweat-drenched after dreaming of Kosovo. Feeling him harden that way as she sucked him caused a wet pulse between her legs and she applied more suction as she wondered how much longer she could hold on touching him this way.

"Oh my God," he moaned, jerking his hips towards her as part of his mind begged her to stop lest he lose all control.

She rolled his balls between her fingers, murmuring something unintelligible before releasing him from her mouth. In a single motion, she brought herself up, straddling him and swiftly lowering herself onto him before he knew what had happened. Brennan knew that had she moved any slower, Booth would have tried to take control, and she refused to permit this—not this time. This time, that afternoon, she was making love to him, proving to him that she loved him—the way he was before Afghanistan, the way he was that morning, the way he was at that moment, and the way she believed he would be after he worked through what had happened to him. Each time she rocked against him, he brought his hips up to meet hers, his healthy arm curled around her waist, his hand braced against the small of her back, his fingers massaging the soft, fleshy curve at the base of her spine.

"I love you, Booth," she sighed as she took him into her. Drawing back again before taking him once more, seemingly deeper with each stroke, she sucked in a breath and added, "Before…this morning…now…tomorrow…and the day after…and the day after that." Rocking herself over him again and again, she smiled at the way he groaned and breathed beneath her, her own breaths rising and falling ever faster, punctuated by long moans as she basked in the pleasure of being filled up by him. She looked down at him, his mouth hanging open as his eyes clenched shut, trying to stave off his release as long as he could. "You know that, right?"

"Yes," he whispered. "Oh my God, yes." His head lolled to the side as he opened his eyes, reveling in watching her ride him, her back arching so beautifully as she took him completely, balls-deep inside of her. "I love you, too…"

"Then let go, Booth," she said huskily. "Let go…let go…"

She quickened her movements, grinding against him even harder than before, each stroke bringing her closer to her own coiling release as she felt his pubic bone press against her most sensitive place. She leaned over, nudging his arm from her hip and pinning his left hand to the mattress as she slid up and over him in hard, measured strokes, forcing herself to keep her eyes open though the rapid rush of her release seemed to tighten every muscle in her body, She felt herself quickly falling into a deep gyre of ecstasy, the room spinning around her as the only thing solid and certain was the cock she felt thrusting up into her and the incredible man who lay writhing in his own ecstasy beneath her.

"Let go," she said, threading her fingers through his as she rode him to the edge of their collective consciousness.

"Yes," he whispered back. "Yes…" He met her with one last thrust of his hips, jerking up into her, burying himself as deeply inside of her as he could before he fractured, spilling himself into her.

"_Yessssss_," she moaned, feeling the gush of his hot seed inside of her as she herself broke, dissolving into a flutter as she slowed her movements, riding out the last of his wet pulses as her own quivering gradually stilled.

"Yes," he said, pulling her into him one last time as she leaned her head down and kissed him. "Oh, God."

"Oh, Booth," she sighed as she rocked her hips back one last time, unjoining them as she gently rolled off of him, wrapping herself around his left side as he lay there, sated and a little stunned, his breaths coming in pants as he turned to look at her.

"Thank you," he whispered to her, his lips devoid of emotion but his eyes glittering, brighter than she had seen them in days.

"Of course," she replied, a little puzzled at his words and feeling more than a little strange that he would thank her for sex.

He turned his head a little more, kissing her shoulder. "Thank you for believing in me," he said quietly.

A smile of realization crossed her lips and she nodded but said nothing, respecting the meaningful silence that hung between them. He closed his eyes and turned his head, content to listen to their breaths as he slowly succumbed to sleep.

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><p>Booth was still asleep three hours later as Brennan sat down at her desk, clad only in panties and a spaghetti-strap cami as she winced at the afternoon sun shining through the window blinds. She reached over and grabbed the trousers she had been wearing that morning, digging into the hip pocket and pulling out a small one inch by two inch plastic bag. She rolled the bag's zip seal between her fingers as she stared at the inch-long sliver of thin brown metal that had sunk to the bottom of the washing soda bath while Wendell was cleaning a set of the remains from the helicopter that had landed on the teahouse.<p>

Brennan rubbed her thumb over the sharp, thin sliver, shook her head and sighed. She turned around, watching Booth as he slept, his breathing slow and even as he lay there, the sheet falling loosely over his hips as he held his healthy arm curled next to his head, his mouth gaping as he snored softly.

She held up the bag for another moment, then opened the waxed canvas flap of her messenger and slid it into a zippered interior compartment.

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><p><strong>AN:** _So, what do you think?_

_Do you want more? I sure want to give you more. In fact, I'm dying to tell you the rest of this story._

_This was a very tough chapter to write, and that's why it took longer than usual to get ready. I'm anxious to know what you thought of it. _

_Please, **please**, **PLEASE**—don't read and run._

_I pour my heart and soul into each of these chapters_—_especially one like this_—_and I'm desperate to know what you think of the direction I'm taking the story._

_So, please, don't leave me hanging. Leave a review. Your reviews feed my muse. My well-fed muse keeps this story coming more quickly. _

_Please, tell me what you think..._


	20. The First Brave Step

**Killing Two Birds**

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><p><strong>By:<strong> dharmamonkey  
><strong>Rated:<strong> M  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> _Hart Hanson owns _Bones_. But people like me who play in his sandbox give you all those delicious little moments that Hart and friends leave out. In this case, AU do-overs for that gap between Seasons 5 and 6 that wrought so much havoc for our heroes. That's why you read fanfic._

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><p><strong><span>AN:**

1) **Military acronyms/terminology**: _A reviewer noted that I'm using some acronyms/lingo the meaning of which may not be immediately evident. Here are some you'll want to take note of because they show up in this chapter:_

**DFAC: **_**D**__ining __**fac**__ility._

**M25: **_A semi-automatic sniper rifle used by U.S. Army Special Forces. Google it for a photo, or check my Twitter feed_ (**_dharmamonkey**) _because I posted a pic of one on the evening of Friday 2/3._

**ANA:** _ Afghan National Army. When Booth refers to an "ANA" he means a soldier in the ANA._

2) **Shout-out to my ****HHB (hugely helpful beta)**: _My friend_ **AvaniHeath** _beta'd the first half of this piece and gave hella useful feedback. I owe her a piping hot venti apple chai. (Add it to my tab, huh?)_

_So, anyways—alright, without further ado, let's go back to Bagram._

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><p><strong>Chapter 20: The First Brave Step<strong>

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><p>Another hour passed before Brennan closed her laptop and climbed back into bed. She snuggled up next to Booth, whose skin felt warm and silky beneath her hand as she gently snaked her arm over his belly. He stirred somewhat but did not wake, and after a few seconds, settled back into peaceful slumber, his mouth slightly agape as a low snore vibrated in his throat. Brennan lay next to him and watched him sleep for several minutes, unable to suppress a smile at how serene he looked, his facial muscles fully relaxed and his forehead smooth as his chest slowly rose and fell with each breath he took. She felt a warm stirring in her belly—not a sexual sensation, really, but one that filled her with a feeling of fondness and adoration for the man around whose body she had folded herself. She raised her head and pressed a kiss along the inside of his bicep, her lips skating across the soft, delicate skin there.<p>

He stirred again, wiggling his hips against the sheets as he murmured, turning his head to the left as his eyes fluttered open.

"Hey," he whispered, a smile breaking across his face as he blinked a couple of times to clear his vision.

"Hey," she replied, leaning close and brushing her smiling lips across the edge of his bicep muscle.

He rubbed his eyes with his fist. "How long was I out?" he asked, his voice still rough with sleep.

"About four hours," she answered. "You were clearly quite exhausted by—well, by everything—and I wanted to let you sleep."

"Thanks," he said, rolling over onto his side to face her. "I guess I haven't been sleeping very well lately." He thought about how many nights he'd lay awake in bed, unable to sleep, listening to the ceaseless rise and fall of her breath and her tiny, barely audible little snores that he found irresistibly adorable but would never tell her about.

"I know," she whispered, stroking her fingers over the lines that criss-crossed his well-toned abdomen. She looked at him and inhaled a deep breath. "Booth, I want you to speak with Gordon Gordon today—or tonight. Given the time difference, you can either do it now—which would make it 1:30 AM D.C. time, or else tonight at nine or ten, which would correspond to 6:30 or 7:30 in the morning D.C. time. It's your call, Booth. Are you ready?"

"Ummm…" Booth looked down, stroking the sheet with the thumb of his injured hand. "Will you stay with me?" he asked quietly, his eyebrows raised expectantly.

Brennan took a short breath and smiled. "If you want me to," she said gently. "Although I believe you may want privacy during any subsequent discussions, I'm more than willing to be here while you talk to him today—if that's what you want."

"Thanks, Bones," he said. He chewed his lip anxiously. "Can we do it tonight?" he asked.

"Okay," she said, rubbing her fingers over his navel as he chuckled, squirming at the ticklish sensation. She laughed at his response, then stilled her hand as he reached over and pulled her flush against his left side, slapping her playfully on the hip. For a minute they lay like that, snuggled close and silent, then Brennan looked up at him. "You never told me how your appointment went this morning."

Booth rolled his lips together and sighed. "Oh yeah," he murmured, wondering why it was that the morning seemed a lifetime ago. "You were right—they took a CT scan of my arm and hand, and I have to go back in a couple of days after they've had a chance to review the CT scan results. They gave me a prescription for an anti-inflammatory and something to help with the pain and tingling."

"What specific drugs did they prescribe?" she asked. "Do you remember their names?"

He looked up and squinted at the ceiling as he tried to remember them. "Prednisone and ibuprofen," he said. "The last one's just Advil, right?"

"Basically, yes," she replied. "But at a higher dose than is available over the counter." He watched her eyes move as she analyzed the information, a smirk dancing across his lips as he could almost hear her thinking. "So when is your next appointment?"

"Day after tomorrow," he said. "I'm kinda scared, Bones. I mean, I kept asking questions today—you know, like when I'd get the feeling back in my pinky, and when it'd stop hurting—but they kept putting me off. It's like they're not willing to say what they think the problem is." He sighed. "It's like they don't know but aren't willing to admit it."

She frowned at the thought, imagining how anxious Booth—not a particularly patient man under the best of circumstances—must have felt talking to the doctors about his injured shooting hand and being given what appeared to be, at least from his standpoint, a heavily jargon-laden brush-off by the orthopedist and neurologist.

"Maybe I'll accompany you to your follow-up appointment," she said.

His eyes lit up. "You'd do that for me?" he asked.

"Of course," she said, kissing his chest and smiling into his warm, smooth skin as he squeezed her against him. He lowered his chin and placed a soft kiss on the top of her forehead, letting his nose linger along her hairline as he inhaled a whiff of her shampoo.

"I'm a little nervous," he whispered.

"About your appointment with the orthopedist?" she asked, knitting her brow as she felt his lips on her forehead. She felt his muscles tense around her and she sensed the anxiety radiating off of him.

"Well, yeah," he said. "But, really, about everything, I guess." He hugged her close, trying to focus on the way she felt in his arms as he attempted to calm his racing heartbeat. "My hand, you know—what happened today—my dreams, the memories. All of it, you know. I feel like everything around me, everything I thought was really solid, isn't anymore. And that scares me."

"I know it does, Booth," she said, raising her hand to stroke her thumb along the fuzzy, razor-short hair over his ear. "But everything that is really important, Booth—the kind of man you are, and the people who care for you—all of that _is _really solid, metaphorically speaking. I love you, Parker loves you, Wendell, Cam, Angela and everyone still cares about you. You're enduring a difficult time, but you are the same person, Booth, that you were before. You'll get through this." She kissed him on the slightly stubbly space in front of his ear. "You'll be fine."

"I'm nervous about talking to Gordon Gordon," he admitted. "I know it's stupid to feel that way, but I can't help it." He rubbed his cheek against her temple, smiling at the way she squirmed a little at the scratchy sensation.

Brennan slid her hand back down to his belly and drew a circle around his navel in a retaliatory tickle. "You told me once, Booth, that feelings are like facts—that they just _are. _They aren't good or bad in and of themselves, but they just exist."

Booth blinked at her statement, considering it for a moment before rubbing his hand over her shoulder and slipping his fingers under the spaghetti strap of her camisole. "Did I say that?" he asked. "Huh. That was pretty smart of me." He slid the strap over the round of her shoulder, letting it fall limply over her arm.

"You _are_ pretty smart," she laughed, caressing her hand in a fanlike motion over his abdomen, letting her fingers tease the edge of the sheet before retreating again. Her smile faded and her face grew serious. "You know I've always found you to be intelligent, Booth."

"And to think you only loved me for my body," he quipped, glaring narrow-eyed at her fingers as if a stare alone would be enough to will her touch where he wanted it to be. The tip of his tongue darted out between his lips as he watched her hand.

Brennan slid her hand further up and brushed her thumb across his nipple, letting her fingernail scrape against it as her hand skated over his pectoral. "I don't _only _love you for your body," she said with a wicked grin, raising her head and nipping his earlobe with her teeth as his hips twisted against the sheets. "You have a number of other redeeming characteristics." He arched an eyebrow, waiting for the _but _that usually came during soliloquies of this sort. "But," she smiled against the pebbled skin of his jaw, "it's an objective fact that you have a very impressive, well-structured body."

She looked at him, watching his eyes as the earlier vulnerable reticence in his warm brown eyes fade as he seemed to jump at the opportunity to immerse himself in something other than talking or thinking about the issues that loomed so large over them. Brennan wondered if it was a good idea to let him off the proverbial hook so easily, but—between the way his touch, and touching him, made her feel and, even more so, the way he seemed to relax, his brow unfurrowing under her gentle ministrations—she saw no harm in letting things take their course. _Soon, _she told herself, _he'll be talking to someone who can really help him. This is the one thing I can do for him right now, isn't it? To take the pain away, if just for a little while—to make him feel lovable, if nothing else. That's good, right?_

"I knew it," he said, his eyes narrowed to mere slits as he pulled his arm away from her and rolled onto his side again, facing her as he threw the sheet off of his hips with his casted hand. "I just knew it." He watched with a wide grin as she reached down and slid her panties off her hips. "You can't help yourself," he said, waggling the point of his tongue suggestively, his groin tightening as he saw her deftly wiggle the black cotton off her legs in one moment and pull her camisole over her head in the next.

"_You _can't help _your _self_,_" she retorted, dragging her two forefingers in the space between his pectorals.

"That's true," he said, reaching over and gently hooking his casted arm under her knee as he pulled her legs apart. "_Mmmm_," he murmured as he leaned against her, sucking in a soft breath as he felt her damp warmth against his flesh. He hesitated and looked into her pale gray eyes, capturing her lips with his as he slowly entered her.

"Ohh…"

* * *

><p>Booth slid the Land Cruiser into park and set the brake as he watched Brennan climb out and walk into the hangar. He felt his breaths turn shallow, just thinking about what had happened there a few hours before. He remembered the set of bones that were carefully arrayed on the steel table and how he had walked into the hangar with the three steaming cups of coffee as he heard Wendell give the pile of bones a name. The blood seemed to drain from his head just thinking about it, and he began to feel a little sick. He gripped the steering wheel tightly with his healthy hand and shook his head several times as if the motion would rattle the disturbing image and stave off the river of images or memories that threatened to breach the levee in his mind. He felt his heart began to race, and his hands started to tremble as the murmur began to steadily coalesce into speech.<p>

_Booth looked down at his left hand and saw it tremble where his fingers curled around the stock as he rested his M25 against his thigh. _

"_Fuck," he muttered as he stared at the broken body of the ANA that lay in the sand at the end of the alley. The back of the man's head had been shattered into a mess of blood and bone, blown open by a sniper's bullet. _

_It all happened so quickly—unusual for a duel between snipers, but this time, the opponent was tremendously outclassed, and it didn't take long for Booth to put him out of commission. A few minutes after the ANA man, Angar—a kid, really, just nineteen years old, a new recruit fresh from Kunduz province in the northeast part of the country—went down, Booth and Bastone had found him, perched on a rooftop a quarter of a mile away. They'd sent a couple of Green Berets with a squad of ANAs around the far side of the bazaar to draw his fire so Booth could confirm his location—yet another example, Booth noted grimly, of how a muzzle flash was a sniper's worst enemy and why 'one shot, one kill' wasn't just braggadocio but rather a survival tactic—and, in a matter of minutes, Angar's killer was placed permanently out of service. Booth winced as he imagined a ghostly hand adding yet another hashmark to his cosmic balance sheet._

"_You okay there, Booth?" Bastone asked, slipping a Marlboro between his full, pouty lips and raising his hands to his mouth as he lit it with his Zippo. He narrowed his eyes and pulled a second cigarette out from behind his left ear. "Here," he said. "You look like you need it."_

_Booth accepted the cigarette, holding it suspiciously between his fingers for several seconds as he tried to remember the last time he had smoked. He had fallen off the wagon once, a few months after finishing Ranger School, but gave it up again a few weeks later, that time for good. He blinked a couple of times, then brought the cigarette to his lips as Bastone lit it for him._

"_He was just a kid," Booth grumbled as he sucked in the first hard, burning breath of smoke. "Just a fuckin' kid—the youngest of six sons, ya know—just trying to find a way out, right?" He watched the smoke stream from his nose as he sucked in another lungful. _

"_Fuckin' sucks," Bastone agreed. "It never gets any easier, man, watching these kids buy it. 'Cause they're always some mother's son."_

Booth blinked away the memory as the passenger doors opened. Brennan climbed in next to him and he felt a hand squeeze his shoulder from behind.

"Hey, Booth," Wendell said, his words punctuated by the slamming of the door. "You okay there, buddy?"

Booth loosened and then tightened his grip on the steering wheel. "Yeah," he said, glancing up into the rear-view mirror and briefly meeting Wendell's bright blue eyes. At that response, Wendell arched a skeptical eyebrow and frowned. As Booth yanked the gear shift into drive and pulled back onto the road, the young man surveyed his face, noting a sadness in the older man's eyes that accentuated the crow's feet that seemed to Wendell to have appeared only after Booth's deployment to Afghanistan.

Brennan turned around and looked over her shoulder at her protégé, signaling with a quick nod of her chin and a flash of her eyebrows that Wendell should not press him. "Let's get dinner," she said, glancing at her watch. "It's half past seven, and I want to make some calls after dinner."

"Let's do it," Wendell said, patting Booth on the shoulder from behind and shrugging in Brennan's direction.

* * *

><p>"Come on, Bones," Booth said, rubbing the towel over the top of his head as he watched her log into Skype. He stood at the foot of the bed barefoot and bare-chested, clad only in a pair of sweats with "ARMY" printed on the thigh.<p>

"Are you going to put on a shirt there, Booth?" Brennan asked. "I mean, not that I mind the way you're currently dressed, but—"

"Okay, alright—jeez," he mumbled, sliding a black FBI T-shirt off a hanger in her closet and threading his casted arm through it before pulling it over his head. "Is he on?" he asked, holding the towel gingerly with his casted hand as he toweled off the last beads of water on his healthy arm. "I'm so fucking sick of this damn cast, I could scream."

Brennan cocked her head and shot him a look.

"Standard orthopedic casts stay on five to six weeks for fractures of the kind you've suffered," she noted. "Given the nerve tissue effects you've been experiencing, I doubt that your orthopedist will let you have the cast removed early."

Booth glowered at her. "I know all that," he snapped. "I'm just saying it sucks."

Brennan's laptop beeped and she turned to him. "He's on," she said. "Are you ready?" He tugged the bottom hem of his T-shirt over his belly and nodded.

"Guess so," he muttered. "I really have to do this, huh?" He rubbed the back of his head and sighed.

"Yes," she whispered, getting up out of the chair and yielding it to him. "You have to do this. You can't do it alone, and I can't help you with this by myself. So are you ready?"

"Yes," he said, sitting down in the chair, his fingers digging into the flesh of his thigh as his leg bounced up and down in restless anticipation.

The computer beeped again and Gordon Wyatt's face filled the screen. He sat back in a brass-tacked brown leather chair in his office, dark wood bookcases behind him. He wore a gray T-shirt with a green logo that looked like the Mayflower emblazoned on the chest that read "P.A.F.C." He set down his coffee cup and fiddled with his computer before looking back into the camera.

"Gordon Gordon!" Booth said, a grin breaking across his face. Gordon Gordon was only shrink he'd ever really liked well enough to willingly submit to seeing, and in that moment, he knew Brennan had been right.

"Agent Booth," Gordon Gordon said, his apple-shaped cheeks rising in a smile. "Or, Sergeant Major Booth, rather." He saw Booth frown a little at hearing his name coupled with his rank, then quickly added. "Sorry—force of habit, I suppose. How about we just go with 'Booth?'"

"Yeah," Booth said, his voice tight as he suddenly wondered if this whole thing was a mistake.

"You look well, Booth," Gordon Gordon said. "Except for the arm, of course."

He sat quietly, studying Booth's face, neck and shoulders for a few moments before going on. He seemed strong, physically, despite the injuries he had suffered, but his face was drawn and uncertain, and he could see by the motion of his left shoulder that he was indulging his nervous habit of bouncing his leg up and down. He was deeply anxious, and trying to use the physical motion to bind that anxiety.

"Dr. Brennan told me a little about what happened," he began. "Of course, the circumstances of her coming to Afghanistan, and so forth."

"So you know," Booth said, bringing his hand up and rubbing the back of his head again, three or four times, before letting his hand fall once more to his thigh. Gordon Gordon narrowed his eyes, noting the gesture.

"Yes, a little," the English shrink-turned-chef admitted with a nod. "But Dr. Brennan and I spoke only briefly yesterday. So why don't you tell me the whole story, in your words."

Booth rubbed his eyes and sighed, then began to explain. He explained about Operational Detachment-Alpha 3623, the kind of unit it was, its composition and his role, and the sorts of missions they carried out in Marjeh and the surrounding parts of Helmand. He described the afternoon of the accident, and where he was when it all happened. Then he hesitated, reluctant to tread into the muddy waters of indistinct memories, so he panned back and described the events more generally, and how the accident claimed the lives of twenty-one other men, including the eleven other men in his Alpha.

"I heard the pilot radio a mayday," he said grimly. "Then I heard a loud sound behind me, and next thing I wake up in a Marine MEDEVAC helicopter, just for a few minutes—long enough to realize I'd been banged up pretty bad. My head was hurting really bad, I had blood all over the front of my uniform. I remember them cutting it off of me, and looking over at my right arm, which was a freakin' mess. There were pieces of bone sticking out of my skin and it hurt like a damn motherfucker—" Booth paused and shrugged. "Sorry—being back in the Army got me to swearing like a soldier again."

"No apologies required," Gordon Gordon said, raising his coffee cup to his lips again as he watched once more as Booth rubbed the back of his head. "Then what happened?"

"A Navy corpsman gave me an injection," Booth explained. "And a couple seconds later everything went black again. I woke up in a hospital, hooked up to IVs, a heart monitor and all these machines, with my arm in a long cast. I couldn't remember how I'd gotten there, or how I'd gotten all messed up."

The Englishman nodded, took one last sip of his coffee and, glancing inside the cup to confirm he'd drained it, raised his eyebrows and smiled. "Alright," he said. "Now this is going to seem a bit strange from a procedural point of view, perhaps, but now that I have a little background, let's talk about how things are going right now."

Booth's brow furrowed deeply and he glared at the screen. "Bones told you?" He turned around and looked at Brennan. "Did you tell him?"

Gordon Gordon watched the interaction between them as Brennan stood over Booth's left shoulder, her hand resting on his right. She shook her head vaguely and her mouth fell open, but she rolled her jaw, hesitating somewhat.

"I told him you broke down this morning," she said quietly, but loud enough for her words to be picked up by the laptop's microphone. "But I didn't tell him about—"

Booth sighed and shook his head, covering his face with his long fingers as he rubbed his eyes. "I hit her," he said quietly, unable to make eye contact as the words fell from his lips.

Gordon Gordon felt his heart skip a beat at hearing his words. He had known Agent Booth for years, since the second year of his and Brennan's partnership, when Booth had been referred to him for a 'fitness for duty' consult after the agent had emptied several rounds from his service pistol into a mechanical clown on top of an ice cream truck. Booth had a highly developed sense of chivalry, and hearing him admit to hitting a woman—his longtime partner and lover, no less—left no doubt in Gordon Gordon's mind that the agent's self-control and internal emotional regulation had been as badly fractured as the bones of his arm.

"Do you want to tell me about that, Booth?" he asked, the upward lilt in his accented voice making it clear that Booth, in fact, could defer the discussion until a later day. He saw Brennan squeeze his shoulder and lean down, kissing his temple and whispering something to him that was inaudible on the other end of the Skype connection.

"I hit her," Booth said, his jaw tightening and his eyes glimmering with tears. "I don't know—I'm not sure why, but…I just don't know."

Gordon Gordon pursed his lips thoughtfully and said, "Let's set that aside for today. Maybe we'll discuss that tomorrow—of course, we certainly need to discuss it, but it will require a certain amount of unpacking that we might not be quite ready to do just yet."

A look of relief flashed across Booth's face as he wiped the moisture from his eyes with the heel of his hand. "Okay," he said.

"Perhaps this is a good time to agree on some ground rules," Gordon Gordon said. "Some conditions. Would that be alright with you, Booth?"

Booth narrowed his eyes and a vague smile flickered on his lips before vanishing again. "Depends what the conditions are," he said evenly.

Gordon Gordon shrugged and smiled. "Quite right," he said. "Well, since the work that Dr. Brennan and Mr. Bray are carrying out in their makeshift laboratory is somewhat of a sensitive matter for you, I think the first thing that might be helpful would be for you to stay out of the lab for a few days. Is there someplace you can go or something you can occupy yourself with for a few hours a day?" He stood up and walked out of view of the camera for a few moments.

"What, like go to a public library or a museum?" Booth snapped at the empty chair on the screen. "This is an Air Force base. Where do you think I should go?"

Gordon Gordon reclaimed his seat, raising his coffee cup demonstratively. "Excellent point," he said. "Well, let me be so brazen as to offer some suggestions and let me know if those are unfeasible given the constraints or facilities you have to deal with at Bagram."

Booth narrowed his eyes suspiciously but relaxed somewhat as he felt Brennan's hand on his shoulder and her breath tickle the top of his ear. "Okay…"

"I recommend you take the opportunity to use the base exercise facilities," he said. "Go jogging, ride a recumbent bike, lift weights—as best you can given your injured arm. Do something for yourself. I think you'll find keeping yourself fit and burning off some of that excess energy will help make you feel a bit better as we try to work through some of these issues."

"That's true," Brennan interjected, entering the conversation for the first time. "The endorphins released during physical activity have mood-elevating and anxiety-reducing affects."

Gordon Gordon smiled. "Precisely," he said.

"Okay," Booth said. "So you're saying I can't go to the lab anymore?" His voice sounded hurt, as if he had been banished as a consequence of some unforgivable offense.

"No," the Englishman replied. "I'm not saying that at all. But considering all that's happened, and the stress you must feel at being—well, to be indelicate about it, I'm afraid—surrounded by the bodies of your fallen friends and comrades, I think it would do you some good to take a few days off to get away from that. Dr. Brennan and Mr. Bray have the advantage—if you want to think of it that way—that they don't know any of the persons involved personally, so some of the emotional responses that you might be having to the work they're doing won't manifest itself the same way for them."

Booth took a deep breath and leaned his head back, then sighed. "Alright," he said. "So I'll take a run every morning and go to the gym for an hour or two. But what'll I do the other five or six hours a day that Bones and Wendell are at the lab?"

Brennan rubbed the palm of her hand over the hard round of his deltoid. "You have doctor's appointments every few days, so that will take up some time. And you can pick us up for lunch every day."

Gordon Gordon hung back, listening quietly as the two of them talked. He had always found them to be an interesting, surprisingly well-matched pair, despite the wide gulf of differences between them. Now, facing a very difficult situation under exceedingly challenging circumstances as they were just beginning a new phase in their own relationship, Gordon Gordon couldn't help but be fascinated by watching them. He chastised himself silently for doing what he had seen the young Dr. Sweets do, observing them as a kind of experiment unto themselves, and quickly brought his focus back to helping the two who he now, over the years, had come to consider as friends.

"That sounds reasonable," he said, nudging Booth a little, then falling silent again.

"Okay," Booth said. "Fine. But that still leaves a lot of time. What am I supposed to do? My assignment is to supervise your work. I'd be in dereliction of duty if I just went and fucked off six hours a day."

"It's just a couple of days," Brennan said. "Besides, at least insofar as how Colonel Wilkins explained your role to me when I arrived here, you are a facilitator, charged with helping make sure I had all the materials I needed to do what the Army had asked me to do." She paused, then frowned and took a breath. "I asked you to help me because I guess I was a little overwhelmed with the scope of what we had to deal with, and you seemed alright, so—it's obvious now that I made a huge mistake. I never should have had you there, handling or watching me handle the remains." She closed her eyes and shook her head. _What an idiot I was, _she told herself. _What the fuck was I thinking? _

Seeing the shift in her demeanor, Gordon Gordon spoke up. "Dr. Brennan," he said, "You did the best you could under the circumstances with the information you had. It's not something to—"

Booth cut him off. "So, wait—what am I supposed to do, Bones? During the day…"

"Your letters," she whispered. "The letters you've been writing—you should finish those."

Gordon Gordon knit his brows as he took a sip of coffee. "What letters would these be?" he asked.

Booth looked over his shoulder at Brennan who nodded for him to answer.

"I wrote a couple of letters," he explained. "For this one guy in my unit, a staff sergeant named Swann." He felt his throat tighten, his voice getting rough just thinking about it. "I wrote a letter to his parents, and another to his girlfriend. I—I was…" His voice trailed off as he remembered reading the letter to Sarah standing over Swann's body bag. "I'd just read the letter I'd written to his girlfriend when I kind of lost it this morning."

Gordon Gordon blinked but said nothing, waiting to see if Booth would say more. After a few moments, he finally spoke. "These letters, I would imagine writing them would be very difficult but I think it would ultimately be an excellent catharsis for you. Did you plan to write one for every man in your unit?"

Booth winced a little. "I was thinking about it," he said. "But after today, I don't know."

"You should do it, Booth," Brennan said. "One letter each day, if you can. Email the completed letters to me and I'll print them using the printer at the hangar, and have Wendell sign for you. I believe we are ten to fifteen days away from having a confirmed identity on each of American servicemen. One letter a day would be perfect from the standpoint of timing." She dragged her thumb across the point of his shoulder, just over his acromion. "It would be cathartic, and—" She stroked his shoulder again. "And it's an important thing that you can do—and only you can do—for the families of your comrades. You're the only one who can give them that kind of glimpse into the lives their sons, husbands, fathers and boyfriends lived over here before they died." She felt Booth's posture stiffen under her hand. "You should do this."

"An excellent idea, if I may say," Gordon Gordon said. "An excellent use of time doing an important service. I'm sure the U.S. Army would not mind you doing that. But there's one other thing."

Booth scratched his head and raised his eyebrows, his forehead crinkled as he waited with trepidation to hear what the Englishman would say.

"Yeah?"

Gordon Gordon drew another sip of coffee and set his cup down with a clank. "I think we should set up a time to talk, you and me alone, and since Dr. Brennan will be otherwise engaged during the day, it would seem like an excellent time for us to chat. I tend to wrap things up at the restaurant around midnight, which is—what?"

"9:30 AM local time," Brennan said quickly.

"Perfect," Gordon Gordon said. "You can have breakfast with Dr. Brennan and Mr. Bray, drop them off at the hangar, we can chat for an hour or so, then you can go and exercise for a couple of hours, then you will have a few hours to write your letters before having to go and fetch your cohorts for dinner."

"Hmm," Booth murmured, unsure about the idea.

"Sounds like an excellent plan to me," Brennan said. She leaned over and whispered in his ear. "We talked about this, Booth," she said firmly. "You need to talk to someone. He's willing to do it, and you like him. He understands what it's like to be in the army in a hostile environment, and to lose men. We can't do this, you and me, by ourselves. You need to do this."

"Yes," he whispered back. "I know."

Gordon Gordon watched them, unable to hear the content of their whispered conversation but pleased to see them communicating that well considering, well, whatever exactly had transpired between them a few hours before when Booth had struck her. He knew, at that moment, with a flash of realization, that Booth would make a full recovery. He saw all of the building blocks of psychological health right there, as plain in front of him as day, and he knew it was only a matter of showing Booth how to put them together. It wouldn't be easy—especially not with a man as stubborn as the cop-turned-soldier that chewed his lip of the other side of the video conference—but he knew it was possible. The woman standing behind Booth was the key, and a smile spread across his face as he thought of how things seemed to finally come together for them.

"So, how about it?" he asked Booth.

"Alright," Booth agreed. "On days I have a doctor's appointment, like the day after tomorrow, we might have to shift that schedule around, but I'm willing to give it a try, for a few days, ya know."

"Very well," Gordon Gordon said, clapping his hands together. "That's all I ask is you give it a fair go, and we see where that takes us after a couple of days."

"Okay," Booth replied. He glanced up at Brennan and then back to the computer screen. "Hey—_ummm_…"

"Yes?" Gordon Gordon smiled into the rim of his coffee cup.

"Thanks," Booth said earnestly, a smile appearing on his face, warmer and less faint than it was before. "For getting up early to talk to me, and for agreeing to stay up late to talk to me, you know. I mean, being retired from psychiatry and all." He swallowed and grinned. "I really appreciate it, Gordon Gordon."

The Englishman took a sip of coffee and set his cup down, his hands wrapping around the ceramic mug. "I am not a doctor treating a patient," he said. "I'm just a simple man, helping out a friend. Right? Calling on my expertise for the benefit of a friend—two friends, really. I want to do what I can to help you out, Booth."

Booth's eyes welled up again and he smiled. He wiped the tears away with the palm of his hand and laughed softly.

"Thanks," he said, his voice heavy with emotion.

"Thank _you_," Gordon Gordon said. "I'm glad I can help."

Booth looked up at Brennan and raised his eyebrows. She nodded with a soft smile.

"Half past nine your time tomorrow, then?"

Booth drummed his fingers on the desk. "Yeah," he said. "It's a date."

"Perfect," Gordon Gordon said, glancing at his watch. "Cheers, you two."

The computer beeped and the connection was broken.

"You did it," Brennan said.

"I did?" Booth asked, his eyebrow quirked in surprise.

"Absolutely," she replied. "This was the first brave step. And you did it. I'm proud of you." She kissed him on the forehead, letting her lips linger on his skin for several seconds as she inhaled his scent.

"Thanks, Bones..."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** _So, what do you think? Gordon Gordon is on the case, and we've got a plan to keep Booth out of that gruesome hangar for a few days. Will it make a difference?_

_Do you want more? I sure want to give you more. In fact, I'm dying to tell you the rest of this story._

_Many of you have told me how much this story has moved you emotionally. (By the way, that floors me. There's nothing more humbling than to know I've brought you folks to tears reading this tale.) I have to cycle through some of those same emotions writing it that you, the readers, do when you read it. This piece is quite draining to write at times. I really do pour my heart and soul into each of these chapters and I'm desperate to know what you think of the direction I'm taking the story._

_So, please, don't leave me hanging. Leave a review. Your reviews feed my muse. My well-fed muse keeps this story coming more quickly. _

_So, come on_—_tell me what you think. Click that wee review button down there._

_Thanks._


	21. Seeing the Forest for the Trees

**Killing Two Birds**

* * *

><p><strong>By:<strong> dharmamonkey  
><strong>Rated:<strong> M  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> _Hart Hanson owns _Bones_. But people like me who play in his sandbox give you all those delicious little moments that Hart and friends leave out. In this case, AU do-overs for that gap between Seasons 5 and 6 that wrought so much havoc for our heroes. That's why you read fanfic._

* * *

><p><strong><span>AN:**

1) **Military acronyms/terminology**: _A reviewer noted that I'm using some acronyms/lingo the meaning of which may not be immediately evident. Here are some you'll want to take note of because they show up in this chapter:_

**ACU: **_Army Combat Uniform (fatigues, people).  
><em>**DFAC: **_D__ining __fac__ility  
><em>**GSA:** _Government Services Administration, US government agency that helps manage and support the basic functioning of federal agencies, supplying products and communications for U.S. government offices.  
><em>**1LT: **_First Lieutenant  
><em>**SSG: ** _Staff Sergeant  
><em>**SFC: **_Sergeant First Class  
><em>**BDU: **_Battle Dress Uniform (older style of fatigues worn in 80s, 90s and early 2000s)  
><em>**NCO: **_Non-commissioned officer_

2) **Shout-out to my ****HHB (hugely helpful beta)**: _My secret weapon and high-speed, low-drag LEO pal _**Jasper777** _beta'd the first half of this chapter and gave hella useful feedback, and also helped me with a bit of technical research that helped immensely with the second scene below. I owe her a piping hot Venti Pikes Place Roast._

3) **Shameless plug for one of my other fanfics**: _Some of you won't be into this, but if you like the tingly, smutty bits I write, and you like snarky or amusing B&B banter, go to my profile and check out "A Very Bad Idea," which is an anthology of sorts I've been doing with my erstwhile coauthor_ **Lesera128**. _We just posted the first two chapters/parts of a four-part scenario called "**Pulling the Goalie**," which is our AU take on what naughty stuff might have happened after Brennan took Booth to the hospital for a broken hand at the beginning of episode 4x13, "Fire in the Ice." It's very funny, very snarky, very steamy and will get very, very M before it's done. You've been warned._

_So, anyways—alright, without further ado, let's go back to Bagram._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 21: Seeing the Forest for the Trees<strong>

* * *

><p>Booth sat down at Brennan's desk, flipped open his laptop computer and waited for it to boot up. He glanced at his watch and saw it was twenty-five past nine. Feeling restless, he stood up and unzipped his ACU jacket, shrugging it off one arm and then the other before tossing it on the bed which Brennan had swiftly made, with Booth's one-handed help, before they set out for the DFAC that morning.<p>

"_Since when did you care about making the bed, Booth?" she'd asked him with a laugh. "It's not like Gordon Gordon doesn't already assume that we're now engaged in a sexual relationship." She smiled at him, that sexy half-grin that he loved so much. "Do you think he would be embarrassed at seeing the sheets and pillows in disarray like that, leading him to deduce that we had sex in that bed recently?"_

_Booth blushed. "For fuck's sake, Bones," he'd told her, unable to suppress a smirk because he knew, once again, she was right. "Just make the bed already."_

The laptop finally finished booting up as Booth scowled at the glacially slow speed of the Army-issued computer. He sat back down at the desk and double-clicked on the Skype icon, then initiated the video call with "_AmuseBouche58._" He smiled at Gordon Gordon's username, and remembered how Brennan had teased him for picking such a boring one (_BroadStreetBully24_) for himself. _"Boring?" he asked her. "Do you even know who the Broad Street Bullies are?" Her blank stare supplied the answer. "Never mind," he said with a roll of his eyes. "Forget it."_

"Can you hear me?" Booth asked.

"Quite well," Gordon Gordon said, unscrewing the cap off of a bottle of Mountain Dew, which made Booth scrunch his nose. "Good morning, Booth."

"You drink that crap, Gordon Gordon?" Booth snorted. "Seems a bit inconsistent with your sophisticated palate there, doc. Unless you're really wrecked tonight and need a massive infusion of caffeine-fueled energy."

"I have no shame," Gordon Gordon admitted. "I bought it at the local bodega because it seemed, at the time at least, to offer the best opportunity to consume a tremendous quantity of caffeine at this time of night. I simply cannot bring myself to patronize Starbucks, no matter how good the coffee smells. If I do, I would be the final nail in the coffin of my personal pride."

"Really?" Booth raised an eyebrow.

"Of course," the Englishman replied. "America is the world's greatest incubator of chain restaurants—which, though I can't claim to have any scientifically-validated statistics to back this up, seems to be at this point her #1 export. There are Starbucks in fifty-five countries, including over 700 such stores in the UK. I would far rather drink hideously nasty swill like this…" He held up his Mountain Dew with a grin. "Than feed the ravenous beast of caffeine imperialism that is Starbucks."

Booth laughed. "Bones loves Starbucks," he said. "That's what they have in the breakroom at the lab—at the Jeffersonian. She's always griping to me about the crap coffee at the Hoover."

"It _is_ crap coffee," Gordon Gordon chuckled. "Colossally bad, to be absolutely honest."

"I know," Booth replied. "That's why I always tried to tank up at the lab so I didn't have to rely quite as heavily on the FBI's crap. Or else I just held off until we could grab a cup at the diner."

Smiling at the reference to the diner and, slightly more obliquely, to the endless hours Booth spent at the establishment with his partner, Gordon Gordon narrowed his eyes a little, sure that all of those moments, aggregated together, formed a bond between the two that had now, after five-odd years, finally blossomed into something bigger.

"Army coffee sucks, too," Booth observed. "There's even a song—a marching cadence—about how crappy the coffee is." He cleared his throat and began to sing: "_They say that in the __Army__ the __coffee's__ mighty fine. It looks like muddy water and tastes like __turpentine_…"

"And does it?" Gordon Gordon took a long draw on his bright, unnaturally-green soda and winced at the sweet taste of it.

"Well," Booth grinned. "It does look like muddy water, but I can't speak to the taste of turpentine, because I haven't done a side-by-side taste test. Army coffee is a caffeine delivery device, plain and simple, just like the crap at the Hoover. I bet they even use the same GSA-approved supplier."

"Probably so," Gordon Gordon agreed, sliding his soda out of the view of the camera. "So—"

Booth took a deep breath in anticipation of what he knew would eventually come. "Yeah," he said opaquely. "I guess I—"

"_Bones, can't you stay with me?" he'd asked her that morning as they walked together down to the car. Wendell was already there waiting for them, standing in front of the tailgate, his navy blue backpack slung over his shoulder. "I mean, when I talk to Gordon Gordon."_

_She looked at him with soft, sympathetic eyes but shook her head. "No, Booth," she said. "You need to do this—without me."_

"_But—" He stopped and stood there, his hand on his hip as he stared at his feet. "I don't know if he'd understand, you know."_

_Brennan cocked her head gently, placed her hand on his forearm and looked at him. "Has he been in the specific circumstances that you are, Booth?" she asked. "No, he hasn't. But—listen to me, Booth—has he been a foot soldier in a hostile environment, patrolling the streets while insurgent eyes watched him from places of concealment? Yes. Has he lost comrades to insurgent violence? Yes." She paused, frowning a little as she worried then that perhaps she'd stepped over the line in being too tough on Booth. "He understands more than you think he does." She pursed her lips and sighed. "Give him a chance, Booth. Give this a chance. Please." _

_Booth shrugged and shoved his hand in his pocket, digging for his keys as he acknowledged Wendell with a slight upward jerk of his chin._

"_Okay," he whispered. "Alright. I can do this. Right?"_

"_Yes," she replied, rubbing her hand in slow circles over his back. "You can do this."_

Gordon Gordon smiled. "So, where would you like to begin?"

"I don't know," Booth replied, frowning and chewing the inside of his lip.

Watching the gesture and seeing—between the nibbling of his lip, his wrinkled brow and the tell-tale signs of his bouncing leg—how anxious Booth was, Gordon Gordon tapped his fingers on the arm of his desk chair, reflecting on what he knew, then raised his head and spoke. "I think it best if we start with what happened yesterday, and work backward from there," he said. "Is that alright?"

Booth jutted his lower jaw forward as he let loose a long sigh. "Yes," he whispered.

Gordon Gordon continued watching him for several seconds before again breaking the silence between them.

"Perhaps it's best," he began, "if you just tell me what happened yesterday."

"What do you mean?" Booth asked. "You mean, like everything that happened yesterday?"

Booth rolled his lips together firmly and glanced out the window, puzzled by how much had happened in the previous thirty-six hours. It seemed, in a way, a lifetime ago, even more so than the crash itself, or his deployment to Afghanistan, or the night at the Founding Fathers, standing out in front of the bar trying to talk Brennan into just holding off before making any big decisions as she contemplated taking some time away from the Jeffersonian—and, by extension, from him. He flipped mentally through the events of the day before, one by one, tracing his steps backwards until he landed where it all seemed to really begin to fall apart.

"I had a dream," he said quietly, his voice tight as the words fell from his lips.

Gordon Gordon noted the tension in his voice and the fact that Booth's eyes were averted. "What did you dream about?" he asked gently.

"Kosovo," Booth croaked, rolling his jaw in a grinding motion as he tried to summon the will to continue despite the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach and the bile that was rising in his throat.

"I see…" Gordon Gordon rubbed his thumb under his chin. "Care to share the details?"

Booth swallowed, hesitating, then nodded. He proceeded to explain how his dream—his memory, really—began with him lining up for the shot on his target, squeezing the trigger as his spotter watched as his bullet traveled a half-mile downrange to meet its destiny, smashing through the forehead of the Serb militia leader and blowing out the back of his head. By the time his rifle's recoil settled, all Booth saw was a bloody spray splattered on a concrete block wall behind where the militia colonel had stood. He recalled how he had hardly begun to fold his rifle's bipod before he heard the sound of small arms fire crackling in the ravine below their position.

"_Oh my God," Booth hissed as he slid down the wooded embankment to where the four other members of his Ranger team were. One of them, his platoon leader, 1LT Hank Luttrell, lay on the ground as one of the other Rangers held his legs a few inches off the ground. Luttrell's helmet lay next to him on the ground and another Ranger held his head between his hands as Luttrell shivered and howled in agony, his half-fisted hands quivering as he saw Booth approach._

"_He's hit, Booth," SSG Barrett said, looking up as Booth and his spotter ran up to them. "Bad, man." Booth crouched down next to Luttrell and saw that he had been shot, the apparent entrance wound piercing his side but, reaching below and sliding his fingers along the small of the lieutenant's back to feel for an exit wound, Booth felt none. Barrett fell back on his haunches as he raised Luttrell's legs up higher, letting his boots fall on either side of his hips. "He says he can't feel his legs," he whispered._

Booth fell silent, his jaw working up and down as he narrowed his eyes, turning his head away from the camera as he once more stared out the window at the bright light of the Afghan morning, trying to fill his eyes with the vision of something other than the memories that flooded back to him. He felt a tingle in his nostrils as he swore he could smell the blood dripping on the ground. There was no doubt in his mind that it was a smell that would never really leave him.

"_Jesus Christ," Booth said quietly, glancing around and seeing the bodies of six Serb fighters laying bloodied and still in the brush a few feet away. "There will be more," he said grimly. "We've gotta get him the fuck outta here, now." His heart was thundering in his ears and he glanced at the four other Rangers that crouched in the dirt. "Here—you take this," he said to his spotter, handing him his sniper rifle. "I'll take him," he murmured._

Gordon Gordon took a long swig of his nearly-flat Mountain Dew and carefully screwed the cap back on the bottle before setting it down next to his laptop. He watched Booth's facial expressions cycle as he recounted his story.

"_What?" SFC Cranston said as he watched Booth hand off his weapon._

"_You take this," Booth said, shrugging off his rucksack and shoving it in Cranston's direction. "Don't give me that look, you ass." His dark eyes burned hard as he looked down at the young officer who writhed on the ground which was now dotted with quarter-sized pools of his blood. "We leave no man behind. We're Rangers."_

"I met him once," he told Booth, his eyebrows raised as he anticipated Booth's response. "Your lieutenant."

"What do you mean?" Booth asked, turning back to the laptop screen. "You know Hank Luttrell? How?"

Gordon Gordon shrugged. "I wouldn't say I know him well," he said. "But I made his acquaintance a couple of years back, right before I gave up my psychiatry practice, when I served as an expert witness for the prosecution in a case involving a particularly violent serial rapist in Columbia Heights, and—"

"I remember that case," Booth said. "Back in 2008, right?"

"Precisely," the Englishman said with a nod. "Terrible, extremely disturbing case, that one." Shaking his head, he turned back to the matter at hand. "So, that's when I made the acquaintance of your friend Judge Luttrell."

_Luttrell opened his eyes and reached up, grabbing Booth by the strap of his Tactical Load-Bearing Vest. Booth looked down and saw his lieutenant's hand, covered with his own blood, the stain of which made the yellow gold of wedding band seem almost copper-colored under the summer sun._

"_Tell Jenny I—"_

_Booth shook his head and squeezed Luttrell's hand. "You'll tell her yourself, okay?" he whispered to him. "We're getting you outta here, alright? You're gonna be fine."_

_Luttrell blinked a couple of times, then smiled faintly through the pain. "Okay, Booth," he whispered, sucking in a breath as Kimmich tied the bandage tightly against his hip._

"_Help me," Booth grunted to the other Rangers as he knelt down to pick up Luttrell who moaned and mumbled incoherently as he was lifted up. Booth winced as he stood, sliding the lieutenant's torso over his shoulders as he lifted himself up to his full height._

Gordon Gordon tilted his head and frowned sympathetically as he continued to inventory Booth's vocal patterns and facial expressions. He felt hamstrung by the distance, the medium and the setting for their discussion, wishing in that moment that they were rather together, two men in a bar, so he could reach out and clap him on the back in a gesture of support or camaraderie. But that reassuring contact, the language of touch, would have to be delivered to Booth by others—by Brennan, of course, or by the young Wendell Bray.

_"Go," he whispered to the other men with a jerk of his head as he tucked his arm underneath Luttrell's knee and fisted the sleeve of his BDU shirt. "Now. Don't wait for me, Kimmich. Go ahead. I'll follow you. Just go." _

Gordon Gordon pursed his lips as he listened to Booth tell his story, sucking in his breath as he tried to imagine the broken-hearted man on the other side of the video conference carrying another, gravely-wounded man on his shoulders behind enemy lines in the middle of someone else's civil war.

"_God, it hurts, Booth," Luttrell moaned._

_"I know it does," Booth said. "I know it does. Just hang in there. You're doin' real good there, Lieutenant. Just hang in there, okay?"_

_"Alright," Luttrell replied, sucking his breath in through his teeth as Booth began to walk, his first few steps punctuated with quiet grunts as he tried to comfortably balance the dead weight on his shoulders._

"You saved his life, Booth," Gordon Gordon told him as he watched a tear fall onto Booth's right cheek as he blinked. Booth raised his right arm to wipe it away, then stopped, staring for a moment at his casted hand before letting it fall with a heavy sigh to rest again on his thigh. Gordon Gordon took a breath as he watched the gesture, made a mental note of it but said nothing. Booth wiped the tears from his eyes with the heel of his left hand as the Englishman continued. "You saved that man's life. Without you, he would surely have died, or been taken prisoner by the Serb militias, and then Lord only knows what would have happened to him."

Booth sniffed, his mouth hanging open as he tried to pull himself together. "That's what Bones said, but—"

"But—?"

He sighed heavily. "I don't feel like a hero here, doc," he said. "I let him down—I let my guys down. Those Serb militia should never have gotten the drop on my Rangers—but they did, which means I must not have trained them right. Their skills weren't sharp enough, or maybe they were overtired from the last mission and I'd missed it. Or, I don't know—"

"You can't do this to yourself, Booth," Gordon Gordon said. "You of all people know how these things can't be perfectly executed every time. War is the perfect example of chaos theory and the butterfly effect. One little thing changes and everything can change in a matter of seconds, and sometimes, it's just not possible to get your arms around all of it in time."

Booth's brow knit heavy and low over his eyes. "But it shouldn't have happened that way had we been—" He grunted. "We were Rangers—we were supposed to be ready for anything. And we weren't. _They _weren't. And Hank Luttrell hasn't walked in ten years on account of it. He'll never walk again, and it's my fault."

"It's not," Gordon Gordon told him. "It's simply not." His jaw hardened as he leveled a hard stare at Booth's glistening brown eyes. "What could you have done differently? What? Tell me what you could have done differently that would have changed the outcome that afternoon…"

Booth blinked then turned away. He watched a box truck pull up behind the building across the street and two airmen climb out. They raised the gate at the back of the truck and pulled the ramp down over the tailgate. "Nothing," he whispered.

"Come again?" Gordon Gordon asked, biting the inside of his lip to avoid even the faintest smile as he watched Booth's eyes and cheeks twitch while his mind chewed on the question.

"Nothing," he said, turning back to the screen.

"That's right," Gordon Gordon agreed. "Nothing."

"But, still," Booth pressed on, his voice thick and choked. "It was my job as the senior NCO in the unit to—"

"Booth," Gordon Gordon interrupted him, his voice firm as he held his hand up. "Stop," he said. "Listen. Have you ever missed a shot?"

Booth's brow dropped low over his eyes again. "What?" he hissed.

"What I mean is, have you ever taken a shot—out there chasing some suspect on the streets or in a combat scenario—and missed?" Gordon Gordon asked.

Booth frowned. "Yes, of course," he replied, his voice dark with suspicion. "What's your point?"

The Englishman cocked his head and shrugged. "When you're on the practice range, Booth, excepting that one period shortly after your brain surgery, of course, you are an exquisitely talented marksman," he said. "You almost never miss."

Booth looked out the window and took a deep breath as he watched the young airmen unload their cargo with hand-trucks. "I never miss on the range," he said quietly, rolling his jaw as he turned back to the screen to see the shrink-turned-chef watching him.

"Why, then," Gordon Gordon asked, speaking each word carefully as he knew he was treading on thin ice, "on those rare occasions when you miss in the field, do your shots sometimes land astray?"

Booth's eyes fell and he stared into his lap for several long moments before looking up again. When he raised his glance, Gordon Gordon saw his brown eyes were narrow but somewhat brighter than they had been in the seconds before. "Because conditions in the range are controlled, and in the field, they are not," Booth admitted. "Out in the field…" He fell silent for a moment, looking out the window once more before looking straight into the laptop's camera. "In the field, additional factors come into play that complicate the execution of the shot. There's always a constellation of circumstances that can't always be predicted."

Gordon Gordon's mouth quivered slightly at hearing Booth's words spoken as if he were an instructor in a tactics course and the chef one of his students. It seemed almost, well, practiced. He spoke with a distinct detachment that reminded Gordon Gordon of Brennan's speech patterns when she used her expertise and intellect as a way of holding people and feelings at arms' length. While Booth's words uttered the right message, the one the Englishman wanted to hear him speak, he was unhappy with the emotional distance. But, he admitted to himself, it was a start.

"You see my point?" he asked, his eyebrows raised expectantly.

Booth nodded. "Yeah," he whispered. "Shit happens."

* * *

><p>Brennan looked at the shattered skeleton laid out on the table in front of her and glanced over at the two on the two adjacent tables. All of them showed massive body trauma, some of the worst she had seen over the years. While several of the other sets of remains, including Michael Swann's, had been relatively intact, albeit severely burned and in some cases partially disarticulated, there were several sets—ten in all—that were more severely damaged than the rest. The three she had examined that morning were among the worst, retrieved from the very first body bag she had begun sifting through the afternoon she arrived at Bagram. The bodies had been almost completely disarticulated—torn apart, essentially—and even the more robust bones had been badly damaged. The skulls were wrecked—crania broken apart into pieces somehow, mandibles torn away and broken, many of the teeth torn from their sockets—and the bones were scarred and pitted by perimortem trauma with no sign of remodeling or antemortem bleeding.<p>

She reached into her pocket and increased the volume on her iPod a couple of notches before turning her attention to the Petri dish on the edge of the table. Inside of it lay five slivers of brown metal, each less than a quarter of an inch wide and ranging in length from one-half to three-quarters of an inch. She picked up the Petri dish and walked over to the microscope. Using a pair of tweezers, she picked up one of the slivers and placed it on a slide, then turned on the microscope and adjusted the focus. She took a deep breath and narrowed her eyes at what she saw, pulled her head away from the eyepiece, shook her head and then took another look.

"That's strange," she muttered. She scribbled a quick note in her notebook, turned off the microscope and went over to her laptop.

"Dr. Brennan?" Wendell asked, looking up to see his mentor's fingers flying across the keyboard, her brow furrowed in concentration as she stared at the computer screen. "Did you find something?" She looked up and shot him an annoyed glare. "Right," he whispered, popping his earbud back into his ear with a shrug and returning to his examination of a skull.

Brennan drummed her fingers on the edge of the steel table as she read the screen. She walked back over to the microscope, flipped it on and took another look at the metal sliver under increased magnification.

"Booth was right," she said, sighing as she stepped back from the microscope.

Wendell pulled both earbuds out of his ears and arched an eyebrow. "What?" He walked over and accepted her invitation to view the slide under magnification.

"Booth was right," she said again. "The Army's official explanation of what happened to these two helicopters is not correct," she said, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper.

"Are you saying that—?"

"Yes," she said, a lilt in her voice as her eyes widened. "These helicopters did not crash due to pilot error."

Wendell's eyes widened and then narrowed again. "But—" He put a hand on his aproned hip and wiped his brow with the back of his wrist, both of his hands still being gloved. "Can you prove it? I mean, to the point we'd—he'd—be believed?"

"Yes," Brennan said confidently. "Look again at the fragment under the microscope." Wendell complied, narrowing his eyes as he waited for her to explain. "Do you see the white paint on that material?"

"Yes," he replied. "What is it?" Brennan deftly removed that slide and, placing another of the metal slivers on a slide, slid that one under the lens. "Ohh," he whispered. "What is that? Arabic?"

Brennan rolled her eyes. "No, Mr. Bray," she replied, her brow kinked in irritation. "It's a Persian script."

He pulled away from the eyepiece and looked at her. "But Persian and Arabic are basically the same script," he said.

"Except that Persian includes four additional letters," she said.

"Okay," he replied, hesitating. "But aren't most of the languages in this region written in a Persian script? Pashto, Farsi, Kurdish, Azerbaijani—"

Brennan nodded. "Yes," she said, "but the partial letter you can see between these two fragments is a character, the _d__o chashmī he, _that is unique to Urdu. Urdu is the official language of Pakistan."

"Of course," Wendell whispered under his breath. _Because everyone knows that, _he grumbled silently. "I'm sorry, Dr. Brennan, but I'm not sure I understand how seeing a tiny fragment of Pakistani script on a sliver of steel will tell us what happened to those two—" He cut himself off. "Ohhh," he murmured.

She smiled. "Well," she said. "Strictly speaking, this alone doesn't tell us what happened to those two aircraft," she admitted. "But it made me think."

"Okay…" Wendell stepped away from the microscope and looked at the eight skeletons arrayed on various tables around their makeshift lab.

Brennan walked around to one of the tables on which a relatively intact skeleton was assembled. "Booth is always telling me to step back and look at the big picture," she said. "He calls it 'seeing the forest in the trees.'" Wendell smiled. "I knew there was something here, but I wasn't sure what it was. I must have stared at those slivers of metal—steel, presumably—for hours before it occurred to me."

The young man slumped his shoulders, sure he would spend the rest of his time at the Jeffersonian playing an exhausting game of mental catch-up with Brennan's mach-speed mind. "What?" he asked, his voice muted as he waited to be smacked-down for his slowness in arriving where she clearly already was.

"We know there are twenty-one servicemen, correct?" she asked. He shrugged his shoulders and nodded. "Five aircrew on each aircraft: a pilot, a copilot, a door-gunner on each side of the helicopter plus a door-gunner in the rear, plus five or six Special Forces soldiers—Booth's compatriots—depending on which aircraft. One aircraft would have carried ten persons, and the other eleven, correct? For a total of twenty-one."

"Right," Wendell said, still not sure where she was going with this.

"I've dealt with aircraft crashes before," she said tersely. "If these two aircraft collided in midair due to pilot error, which is the Army's assertion, then you would expect to have all twenty-one sets of remains showing injuries indicative of an aircraft collision: bodies being thrashed around the inside of an aircraft, injured by contact with the aircraft's structural features when the aircraft impacted one another and/or the ground, and subsequently damaged by fire and, possibly though not necessarily, low-velocity explosions due to rupture of fuel compartments."

"Right," he said, encouraging her to continue, biting back a smile as he knew she was onto something even though he was not yet sure what it was.

"But there are remains here with perimortem injuries indicating a far greater degree of trauma consistent with high-energy, high-velocity explosions," she said. "Some of these bodies were blown up with a high-explosive of some kind."

Wendell's eyes widened and his face slackened as realization washed over him. "Oh, right," he mumbled.

"In fact," Brennan continued, walking around to another set of remains. "I'd really place the remains in three categories: one group of individuals that were five to ten feet away from a high explosive material at the time of detonation, which remains are almost completely disarticulated and very badly damaged skeletally, a second group that were perhaps fifteen to thirty feet away from the explosive material at the time of detonation, which remains show substantial disarticulation in certain portions of the body and significant skeletal damage due to explosion, and then a third group, the remains which were largely intact, with limited disarticulation except for that associated with low-velocity traumatic amputation of limbs or heads due to impact."

Wendell snapped his fingers. "Yes!" he gasped. "And, based on your notes and the labels affixed to the various crates, the ones in the first two categories came from the same group of body bags, which presumably means they came from the same aircraft."

"Correct," Brennan said with a nod. "And—"

Wendell interrupted, determined to beat her to the punch, if not mentally, then at least verbally. "And the remains with the worst damage are the ones from which the slivers of metal were found when I removed the flesh."

"Yes."

"These helicopters didn't just crash because of bad piloting," he said, his voice low and his words solemn. "One of them was hit by some kind of explosive and hit the other one, which is why they both went down."

"Exactly," Brennan said, gesturing for him to follow her back to her laptop. She motioned towards an image on the screen. "I think _that," _she pointed to a photo on the Wikipedia entry for _Rocket-Propelled Grenade, _"is what _these_ are from." She held up a Petri dish with three more of the brown metal slivers. "Booth could confirm that," she added, a certain sadness in her voice as she wondered when—and how—she would tell Booth about her revelation.

Wendell's mouth fell open as the full scope of what they'd found finally dawned on him. "And the writing you found on them—in Urdu—that means that whatever those are, they came from Pakistan originally."

Brennan shrugged and quirked an eyebrow. "Or, in any case, were labeled at some point for use by Urdu speakers. The weapon that took down one of those helicopters was brought into Afghanistan from Pakistan."

"Damn," Wendell said.

"Although I can't be certain," she said, "There's little doubt in my mind that these helicopters crashed as a result of one of them being attacked by an explosive RPG warhead imported into Afghanistan from Pakistan. These aircraft were not brought down by pilot error, and they were not brought down by friendly fire from an Afghan National Army unit, whose soldiers are equipped with RPGs but not with RPGs from Pakistan." She narrowed her eyes and took a deep breath. "This was a hostile act."

"These men were killed in action," Wendell whispered.

"Yes."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** _So, what do you think? (And don't say, "Hell, it took you twenty-one chapters to tell us THAT?")_

_Do you want more? I sure want to give you more. In fact, I'm dying to tell you the rest of this story._

_Please, **please**, **PLEASE**—don't read and run. Tell me what you think. _

_I pour my heart and soul into each of these chapters and I'm desperate to know what you think of the direction I'm taking the story._

_So, please, don't leave me hanging. Leave a review. Your reviews feed my muse. My well-fed muse keeps this story coming more quickly. _

_Tell me what you think..._


	22. But Thinking Makes It So

**Killing Two Birds**

* * *

><p><strong>By:<strong> dharmamonkey  
><strong>Rated:<strong> M  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> _Hart Hanson owns _Bones_. But people like me who play in his sandbox give you all those delicious little moments that Hart and friends leave out. In this case, AU do-overs for that gap between Seasons 5 and 6 that wrought so much havoc for our heroes. That's why you read fanfic._

* * *

><p><strong><span>AN:**

1) **Acronyms/terminology**: _A reviewer noted that I'm using some acronyms/lingo the meaning of which may not be immediately evident. Here are some you'll want to take note of because they show up in this chapter:_

**DFAC: **_D__ining __fac__ility_

**NLCS: **_National League Championship Series: Booth's Phillies played the San Francisco Giants and lost. The Giants went on to win the World Series. (This tells you that the fic takes place in mid/late October 2010.)_

**PBR: **_Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, people! Booth's 2nd choice if his favorite swill, Yuengling, isn't available. _

_2) __**Shout-out to my HHB (hugely helpful beta)**__: Another shout-out to _**Lesera128**_, my frequent collaborator and resident expert on writing Brennan brainspace. I owe you a coffee and a dose of Boothy brainspace for you to use somewhere. I'm quite certain you'll collect on both. _

_So, anyways—alright, without further ado, let's go back to Bagram._

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><p><strong>Chapter 22: But Thinking Makes It So<strong>

* * *

><p>Booth pulled the Land Cruiser up in front of the hangar.<p>

He stared for several moments at the sign above the door, which read _54th Quartermaster Company_ and was emblazoned with the insignia of the Quartermaster Corps, underneath which a banner read, _Supporting Victory. _He rolled his jaw a couple of times from side to side as he swallowed nervously, tightening his grip around the steering wheel as he waited for Brennan and Wendell to walk out. He winced as he felt a sharp, searing pain roll down from his right elbow across his palm and along the fleshy, outside edge of his hand.

"Dammit," he whispered, wiggling his arm to shake away the painful sensation as Brennan opened the front passenger door.

"What are you doing, Booth?" she asked, watching him with narrow eyes as he shook his arm and pulled it back to his side, leaning the cast on his right thigh as he looked at her with raised brows and pouty lips.

"Nothing, you know, just—" His words trailed off as he read her stern expression and knew he could not hide his pain from her. ""It's just—"

"What time is your appointment tomorrow?" she asked tersely, ignoring Wendell who climbed into the back seat behind her.

Booth cleared his throat. "8:30," he replied. "On the other side of the base," he explained, pointing his left index finger in the direction of the hospital.

"Yes," she said. "I'm definitely coming with you." She took a breath and relaxed her jaw, which had tightened watching him try to shake away what she could tell from the way his eyelid twitched had been a particularly intense episode of nerve pain.

"Thanks," he whispered, letting go of the steering wheel as he leaned over the console, cupped her face with his healthy left hand and kissed her briefly, letting his lips linger against hers for an extra moment before pulling away. He glanced at Wendell who sat in the back seat, silent but grinning like the cat that ate the canary. "Yeah, okay," Booth said with a wide smile, meeting Wendell's glittering stare in the rear-view mirror. "So there's your answer to _that _question, kid."

Wendell laughed, then coughed as Brennan's head swiveled around. "Okay, then," he said awkwardly.

Brennan blinked a couple of times, glanced once at Booth and then turned to her protégé. "It appears that the three of us have evolved into a family unit of sorts, here in Afghanistan, wouldn't you say?" she asked, her tone of voice leading to the inevitable conclusion that the question was clearly rhetorical. "So there's no point keeping any secrets among us, is there?"

Booth and Wendell both turned to stare at her.

A smile flashed across the younger man's face. "Well, I'm not exactly falling out of my seat here, Dr. Brennan, if that's what you're asking," he said.

"Of course you're not," she replied, her eyebrow deeply arched at his statement. "I'm glad to see you wearing your seat belt. Booth seldom wears one back home, though it appears his willingness to flaunt the rules isn't as acute here while he's under military discipline. Perhaps he'll make it a permanent habit."

"Bones," Booth chuckled. "I think the kid's saying he's not surprised." he said, his eyes meeting Wendell's once more in the rear-view mirror as he turned onto the main base road and headed towards the dining facility. "Besides, I've been breaking the rules plenty since you showed up," he added, his cheeks flushing a little as soon as he realized what he had said.

Brennan shot him a narrow-eyed look as Wendell smiled. "I'm happy for you two," he said. "Seriously. That's awesome."

* * *

><p>Booth, Brennan and Wendell took their seats at what was now their regular table in the corner of the DFAC, with the partners sitting across from one another and Wendell next to Brennan.<p>

"You know, Booth," Wendell said, tucking into a heaping plate of spaghetti and meatballs. "The food here's not bad, really. I wasn't sure what to expect, you know, but—"

He shrugged, looking over at Brennan out of the corner of his eye and seeing the two partners engaged in some kind of a silent exchange, the kind he'd seen before and had always been amazed by. It wasn't the kind of sexually-charged _eyefuck_ that Angela had whispered about before—though he presumed that kind of interaction was no longer necessary since, in fact, it appeared the two had likely consummated that long-unquenched part of their relationship—but rather a brief conversation carried on without words.

"Naw," Booth said. "Army food's pretty decent now. Way better than it was when I enlisted when I was nineteen." He observed Brennan's smile and added, "But, as Bones is quick to point out, the coffee still sucks."

"It does suck," Wendell agreed with a laugh. "That's why I'm gonna stick with Coke and Mountain Dew, except when you're kind enough to hook us up with some of that fine Mickey D's coffee."

The mention of Mountain Dew made Booth's expression sour nearly immediately. Brennan turned briefly to Wendell, met his blue eyes with hers and then turned her gaze to Booth.

"Everything go alright this morning?" she asked vaguely. Booth blinked, and she noted his hesitation. "Wendell knows," she whispered. "He—after yesterday, I told him you were conversing with Dr. Wyatt. It's okay, Booth."

Booth's jaw hardened as he felt a wave of shame crash over him. He covered his eyes with his left hand and took a breath, silently trying to reassure himself that the two people in front of him thought no less of him getting help than they did before. He swallowed and shrugged, trying to shake off the feeling.

"It was fine," he muttered, pulling his hand away from his eyes to see her staring at him, her eyes soft and open but her lips pursed in concern. "But, let's talk about it later, okay?"

"Okay," she whispered, taking a breath as she felt her stomach clench at the way he'd reacted to Wendell's knowledge that he was in therapy.

_I've said something wrong. _She stopped and frowned as she considered his reaction. Looking over at him, she observed his tense body language and saw the emotions almost physically manifesting as they rolled off of him. _I'm not certain, but—w__hy is he reacting this way? _she wondered. Taking a few seconds, she began to deconstruct the turn of events in her mind. _We were talking about Dr. Wyatt, so obviously it has something to do with his therapy, but what? I still think that __psychology__'s __a soft scienc__e__, but there's absolutely __no __doubt or question in my mind that__ Booth needs someone to help him talk through the trauma he__'__s suffered. __And, he agreed to that point, so...did he change his mind? Or, was it something else? _

Brennan again paused as she tried to catalogue the variables in the situation that were present and might've contributed to Booth's response. _I mean, the only thing that's different between how he was earlier and now is that it's not just the two of us. The only change is that we've been joined by a third party. But, I don't see how that could be it. __I don't understand why he __would be so__ uncomfortable with __Mr. Bray__ knowing about __his communication with Dr. Wyatt__. I mean, it__'s not like he doesn't already possess some knowledge of the situation. Mr. Bray __saw Booth hit me—and, admittedly, __witnessed when I__ hit Booth __in response__—and it's not as if he hasn't been in a position to observe Booth's mood swings and melancholy. Booth's a keenly perceptive man, so surely he knows that. So, why is he acting this way?_

"Sorry, man, about your Phillies," Wendell said.

"Yeah," Booth said. "I was sorta hoping they'd at least make a good show of it and take it to the full seven games in the NLCS, but, oh well—"

"Ya gonna root for the National League?" Wendell asked. "Or you gonna root for the Rangers since, well, you were a Ranger."

Booth rolled his eyes. "Not that kind of Ranger," he groaned. "I guess I should, since they beat the Yankees, and I hate all the teams from New York, but—"

_Men and their athletic events, _she mentally sighed. _What __in the hell __am I going to do? I need to tell Booth about what Wendell and I determined as far as the cause of that crash is concerned, but it's going to be __extremely disconcerting __when I do. Booth__'__s already suspicious that he's been lied to by the Army and—perhap__s even __more disturbing to him __will be when __he finds out that the Army has posited a false explanation for the crash of the two helicopters and that the families of these men have been lied to, he's going to __manifest a significant emotional outburst and probably try to internalize as a means of controlling it after he's expended the initial outburst._

"Hey," Wendell said. "At least hockey's started up again, huh?"

Booth grinned. "Yeah," he said, taking a bite of his hamburger as Brennan reached over and grabbed one of his fries from the edge of his plate. "Not sure how my Flyers are gonna do this year, though," he murmured, his mouth full of half-chewed food. "They did beat Pittsburgh in the opener."

Brennan glared at him and he shrugged.

She sighed and listened in silence as Booth and Wendell talked hockey. _Perhaps when we return to __D.C., maybe it would be an enjoyable experience to see if I could procure tickets for us to attend a hockey game? After all, my__ publisher would probably be able to arrange for some __excellent__ seats__ if I just call her. __Going home—home seems very far away right now. Being home—with Booth. _Brennan smiled at the pleasant thought, then her smile faded as the gravity of her partner's struggles weighed on her. _What is going to happen to Booth? _she wondered. She looked over at his casted arm, which rested, as usual, in its sling, his fingers still. _His next doctor's appointment __i__s absolutely key to determining the course of his future treatment. I__'m __concerned what the CT scan __will__ show. Is the nerve injured? Was it damaged __when the building collapsed on him and his radius and ulna were fractured? Or was it damaged during the surgery to set the bones? Or is this some kind of post-injury or post-surgical inflammatory response? Will the CT scan show some sort of condition that can be remedied surgically? I really need to __print and read that 2007 article in the _Journal of Orthopedic Trauma _about ulnar nerve palsy associated with high-energy fractures of the distal radius so__ I can attend that appointment fully prepared to ask the right questions. Even at his best, Booth hates going to the doctor, and he's going to be intimidated by all of the medical jargon. _Brennan nibbled her lip as another realization dawned on her. _And the Army doctors are all commissioned officers. As an enlisted solder, albeit a senior noncommissioned officer, Booth's going to be somewhat reluctant to challenge their opinion. He may be a freethinking, rogue rebel in civilian life, but here, he has to operate within the constraints of Army culture, for which consequences exist if he flaunts the chain of command__. _

_Army culture...fuck...that's not helping matters much, is it? Booth's natural reluctance to seek help for the issues he's having is compounded by the culture of machismo and deference to the so-called brass._

_Fuck Army culture. I wish I could airlift Booth out of here and take him home. It'd be a lot easier to help him if we weren't here, and he weren't in the Army. But none of this would have happened if—_

Brennan took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly as she tried to let go of the nagging guilt.

_I can't focus on that now. I have to focus on Booth. _

_What do I tell Booth? How do I tell Booth? Those helicopters were shot down by a rocket-propelled grenade, fired by someone on the ground. Booth was on the ground, in a place of concealment, performing a reconnaissance and overwatch function for the helicopter-borne insertion of the other eleven members of his detachment. When I tell him that we have proof—almost incontrovertible proof—that a hostile actor on the ground hit one of those aircraft with an RPG that caused its electro-mechanical failure and it to collide with the other unit, bringing them both down, he's…I don't even know what he's going to do…except I have a very bad feeling he's going to blame himself. _

_He blames himself for this whole situation anyway, even though there's no logical basis for him to do so, especially given the existing official explanation of pilot error. Now, when I tell him that someone on the ground—oh, this is not good...not good at all. Damn it. Fuck. Booth is going to blame to himself for failing to spot the threat. He's going to blame himself for not seeing the insurgent who shot at the helicopters. Never mind that, hell, he probably really couldn't have seen the man if he had tried, given the limited field of vision he likely had from where he was sitting. Damn. He's definitely going to...oh, hell...and when he does, it could...it could be worse than all the rest of his past perceived failures put together, because he's going to see this failure as having a body count of twenty-one, or twenty-two, if he counts Hannah Burley, which he probably will, because she seems to be an innocent bystander in all this..._

_Oh, fuck. What am I going to do? I don't know how—or when—to tell him this. I know I have to tell him, because I've never lied to Booth. If his men and his officers were killed in action by a hostile act, as is no doubt the case, then he wants them recognized as KIA. He wants the truth. He deserves the truth. I have to tell him the truth. I just don't know...he's going to really tear himself up over this._

She saw Booth roll his right shoulder uncomfortably and wince, a sign that he was suffering another flash of nerve pain. _First things first, right, Brennan? Let's get him through tomorrow's doctor's appointment, see what the story is with his arm and the ulnar nerve. Meanwhile, Mr. Bray and I need to redouble our efforts to quickly assign identity to the servicemen's remains. We don't really need to disclose our findings on the cause of the crash today. Neither Booth nor the Army really needs to know that we figured any of that out yet. A few days' wait on that subject won't make much of a difference...__at least, probably not.__ The families have already been lied to, right? So if they find out the truth this week, next week or next month, it won't change the fact that they may be upset that the Army is changing its story. My priority is Booth—Booth's physical recovery and, even more importantly, Booth's mental health. Everything else is clearly secondary. Help Booth. Identify the remains. Everything else is a lesser priority. Important, perhaps, but secondary. _

Brennan looked down and realized she had hardly eaten any of her salad. She reached for her fork and stabbed a tomato, bringing it to her mouth as her eyes met Booth's.

"Hey," he said, his brow furrowed low over his eyes. "You okay there, Bones? You need to eat, even if it's just your rabbit food there."

"I'm fine," Brennan assured him quickly. "Just thinking about some things I need to do—back at the hangar."

After everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours, she felt odd even mentioning the hangar, and then realized the foolishness of feeling that way. _We're keeping Booth away from the remains for a few days, but it's not as if he doesn't know what Mr. Bray and I are spending __our time __doing, righ__t__? _She sighed and shook her head. _Booth's always been the strong one emotionally, the one who __always knew what to do next when some inconsistency would suddenly emerge__. He never had any doubt__s or worries that he wasn't doing __exactly__ what he needed to do.__ Now, I'm supposed to be __his__ proverbial rock__...his bastion of strength? It would be amusing in its irony if I wasn't one of the people involved here. __But, __God...how do I do that? How can I be that for him? I'm not sure I can. I-I...__I feel woefully inadequate to the task. _She picked at her salad some more, then reached for the thick-walled, white diner mug with its noxious coffee.

"Bones," Booth said pleadingly. "You need to eat."

"I had a snack at the hangar," she lied, setting her fork on her plate and draining the last mouthfuls of her coffee. "I'm fine—Mr. Bray, are you ready to go?"

"Yes, Dr. Brennan," Wendell answered, cocking his head at her extended silence and the suddenness with which she broke it.

"Alright, then," Brennan said. "You ready, Booth?" He narrowed his eyes briefly and nodded, then they both stood up at the same time.

"Let's go," he said.

The three of them walked out of the DFAC in silence. As they approached Booth's white Land Cruiser, Brennan turned to Wendell.

"Can you give us a minute?" she asked him. "Alone."

The young man's eyes widened and he held his hands up, then nodded. "Sure," he said, turning and walking away, his hands in his pockets, finally stopping at the corner of the DFAC building, about thirty feet from where Booth and Brennan stood next to the driver's side door.

"Booth," she whispered, putting her hand on his arm. "How was your—" She paused, not wanting to call it a _session, _though for all practical purposes they both knew that's essentially what it was. "—your conversation with Gordon Gordon?"

Booth wiggled the heel of his boot in the sand, looked away and then up into her eyes. "It was alright," he said. "I hate this. I know I need to do it, but it sucks."

"I know it does," she said, gently squeezing his hand. "What are you going to do this afternoon?" she asked, quickly glancing over to Wendell.

Booth sighed, rubbing his hand over the close-cropped hair on the back of his head. "I ran five miles this morning, after talking to Gordon Gordon. Came back and showered, putzed around on the computer for a few minutes, then came to get you guys. I'm gonna go to the gym, lift some weights, then—" He shrugged. "Then I'm gonna do a letter."

Brennan nodded. "Okay," she said quietly. She squeezed his hand again. "If it's too much, would you please do me a favor?"

"What?" he asked.

Looking at him with an imploring look of vulnerability that few people in the world were allowed to see, she said quietly, "Just stop...take a break. Go for a walk or a run. If you need me, call me or text me, okay?" _Just don't do anything dangerous, or stupid, _she thought_. Or gamble, _she added grimly_. _"I'm just on the other side of the base, alright, Booth? I'm just a phone call away. You're not alone, okay?"

He nodded. "I know," he said. "I'm sorry, Bones." He sighed and stared at his boots, which were dusty and the suede slightly scuffed, no longer as new-looking as they had been just two weeks earlier when they were issued as replacements for the pair that were torn and bloodied after the crash. "About yesterday," he said, unable to look her in the eyes as he felt a dark wave of nausea splash over him at the thought of what he did to her little more than twenty-four hours earlier. "And—" His eyes glistened with tears as he struggled to explain himself. "You know...everything."

"Don't apologize," she told him. "Please. You—you've got nothing to be sorry about. None of this is your fault." She paused. "It isn't anyone's fault, Booth. What happened—all of it—it just _is._" She remembered the line from Shakespeare: _There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so. _A faint smile curved the edges of her mouth as she realized both she and her partner could do with being a little more mindful of Hamlet's words to Rosencrantz.

"I know, Bones," he said, his voice still uneven as he raised his hand, clasped in hers, to his chest, rubbing it over his heart before letting it fall once more.

Brennan smiled at the gesture. "I'm proud of you, Booth," she said. "Really. More than you possibly know."

"Thanks," he replied. He stood there in silence for several long moments before looking up again. "Ready?" he asked her, and as soon as he saw her nod, he raised his hand and waved at Wendell, summoning him over.

* * *

><p>After stopping at the Base Exchange to buy a combination lock, Booth went to the 4-Corners fitness facility. The gym was relatively empty at half-past one in the afternoon, with only one other soldier and a couple of airmen working out there. He looked down at his casted arm and frowned, annoyed that his injury would prevent him from doing his normal weight-lifting routine. <em>On the upside, <em>he noted, _I don't have to find somebody to be my spotter, right?_

Booth tucked the backpiece of his earphones behind his ears and plugged the cord into his iPod. He selected the playlist "Workout" that Swann had put together for him, then pressed play before walking over to the free weights area.

Booth arched an eyebrow as the highly distorted opening bars blared into his ears. _What the fuck, Swann? _he smirked. The singer's distorted voice opened up over a very minimal, bass-driven instrumental backdrop as the thumping bass and harsh guitar of the opening bars dropped away.

_I remembered black skies, the lightning all around me  
>I remembered each flash as time began to blur<br>Like a startling sign that fate had finally found me  
>And your voice was all I heard that I get what I deserve<em>

He retrieved a weight glove from his pocket and awkwardly pulled it over his left hand, then selected a dumbbell from the rack. He sat down on a nearby bench and started a set of bicep curls.

_So give me reason to prove me wrong, to wash this memory clean  
>Let the floods cross the distance in your eyes<br>Give me reason to fill this hole, connect the space between  
>Let it be enough to reach the truth that lies across this new divide<em>

Booth narrowed his eyes as he listened to the words of the song. He shook his head and tried to focus on the sensation of bringing the dumbbell up to his shoulder and down again as he straightened his arm. It had been a couple of months since he last lifted weights, and he felt the tight, pleasant burn in his bicep.

_There was nothing in sight but memories left abandoned  
>There was nowhere to hide, the ashes fell like snow<br>And the ground caved in between where we were standing  
>And your voice was all I heard that I get what I deserve<em>

He laid back on the bench, held the dumbbell in an overhand grip parallel to his body and began to do tricep extensions.

_So give me reason to prove me wrong, to wash this memory clean  
>Let the floods cross the distance in your eyes across this new divide<em>

_In every loss, in every lie, in every truth that you'd deny  
>And each regret and each goodbye was a mistake too great to hide<br>And your voice was all I heard that I get what I deserve_

"Fuck," Booth growled, frowning at the music as he sat up, setting the dumbbell on the floor. He reached into his pocket and advanced to the next song. "Sorry, Swann," he whispered. "Can't take that shit right now. Fuck."

He returned the dumbbell to the rack and glanced around the gym. The two airmen had left, leaving him alone with just the soldier, a young Hispanic man with a severe, razor-short high-and-tight that reminded Booth of Swann's "high speed, low drag" haircut. The soldier acknowledged Booth with an upward jerk of his chin before returning his focus to his next set of lat pulldowns.

Booth climbed onto the leg press machine and set the weight at 300 pounds, took a breath and began to press the weighted plate away from his body with his legs. _Fuck, _he grimaced. _I shouldn't feel this at all. I used to be able to do way more than this. Damn, I'm out of shape._ He completed a set of ten, then added another forty pounds and began a second set.

_Booth found Bastone waiting for him there at the bar, a half-empty bottle of beer in front of him next to a pack of Marlboro Reds. "Damn," he muttered as Booth approached the bar. "You really are in better shape than most of those kid sergeants ten years younger than you." _

"_Bastone," Booth said, clapping the First Sergeant on the back as he slid onto the stool next to him. "Hey, you buyin'?" he asked him with a toothy, open-mouthed grin._

"_Fuck you, Booth," Bastone replied with a laugh, his cigarette wobbling as it dangled from his lips. "Actually, Parnell's supposed to be buying your rounds, if he'd ever get his ass over here." He raised a finger and summoned over the bartender, a busty redheaded woman in her mid-twenties in dark blue jeans and a black tank top two sizes too small for her. "Clarissa, this is my friend Booth."_

_Clarissa smiled and flashed her eyebrows suggestively. "He's cute," she said to Bastone, glancing at Booth's left hand and seeing his ring finger bare. "And single, too." Turning to Booth with a crooked grin, she leaned over the bar with her arms crossed so as to accentuate her bust as she asked him, "What can I get you, soldier?"_

_Booth rolled his eyes and shook his head with a laugh. He narrowed his eyes and read the lables on the tap pull handles. "I'll have a Pabst Blue Ribbon," he said. Clarissa shrugged at Booth's lack of interest and turned away to pour his beer._

"_You're a fucking babe magnet, man," Bastone observed, drawing a heavy puff on his cigarette as he reached for his beer and looked at the way Booth's hard, muscular arms strained the sleeves and shoulders of his faded black Steelers T-shirt. "Good thing I'm married, 'cause I don't think I'd ever want to go out with you looking for chicks. I'd just be the ugly, lonely Guinea standing over at the corner of the bar watching you get mauled by all the broads."_

_Booth laughed again. "What can I say?" he grinned, jerking his chin in the direction of Bastone's hand, where his white gold ring contrasted brightly against his Mediterranean skin. "A wedding band would be a babe repellent, I suppose. I've never managed to get myself hitched—not for lack of trying, but that's a whole 'nother story—so I guess it's my curse, huh? My cross to bear, you know."_

"_You're a fucking piece of work," Bastone snorted, draining the last of his Budweiser as Clarissa came back to deliver Booth's PBR. "Cocky bastard."_

"_Hey," Booth said, pointing a rigid forefinger at his belt buckle. "Truth in advertising, baby—you've been warned."_

"_Huh." Bastone raised his eyebrow as he reached over to snuff out his cigarette. "Why do I think that little accessory of yours isn't there to advertise for my benefit?" He slid his empty beer bottle to the inside edge of the counter and gestured for the bartender to give him another. "What, were they all out of T-shirts that said, 'I have a huge fucking dick and I'd love to show you how I can use it?'"_

_Booth sat back on his bar stool and brought his beer to his smiling lips, taking first foamy sip before setting his pint glass on the bar. "Are you saying you'd like to see my dick and have me show you how I can use it?" he asked with a grin. He held up his hand. "Because, Bastone, you seem like a really cool guy, and I like you a lot, but you're not really my type."_

"_Fuck you, Booth," the Italian grunted as he brought his lighter up to his face, cupped his hand around his cigarette and lit it._

"_Fuck you, too, Bastone," Booth replied with a hearty laugh._

_They sat there drinking their beers in silence as Bastone burned another Marlboro down to the filter before lighting another. Booth signaled Clarissa for another round and turned to Bastone with a serious look carved on the drawn features of his face._

"_You think they're ready?" he asked._

"_Who?" Bastone asked. "The kid sergeants?"_

"_Yeah," Booth said. "I mean, this war sure isn't gettin' any easier as time goes on."_

"_They're ready," the first sergeant said. "Even the youngest ones like Swann have been to the 'Stan once or twice, and Iraq once or twice. There's not one of 'em with less than two tours under his belt. Most of 'em have done four, five or six tours." Bastone brought his beer to his lips, hesitated, then put the bottle down again. "They're ready, Booth. They may not have the campaign stripes that you and I have, but they've all fought this kind of war before. This ain't their first rodeo."_

_Booth pursed his lips and nodded. Swann had said the same thing. 'It's not my first rodeo,' he'd said. Wanting suddenly to change the subject, he asked, "Have you ever been to a rodeo, Bastone? I mean, just wondering."_

"_What? To watch a bunch of dumb rednecks get thrown off animals that don't want to be ridden?" Bastone rolled his eyes. "No, thanks." He took a swig of his beer. "Have you?"_

"_Yeah, once," Booth replied. "I had this case once—you know, with the FBI. It was a weird case. Got called in to assist in a multistate investigation of a steriod/money-laundering ring centered in Dallas but with satellite operations that reached as far west as Reno and as far east as Richmond, Virginia. It turned out these compounding pharmacies were selling anabolic steriods to folks involved in the professional rodeo circuit."_

"_The bull riders?" Bastone asked. "Stupid motherfuckers. Who'd wanna ride a bull anyway? Sounds like a way to get a horn up your ass."_

_Booth laughed. "I'm with ya. I don't get it either, man—but the really weird part was, it wasn't just the riders that were being given the 'roids. They were giving the drugs to the friggin' bulls, too."_

"_You're serious?" _

"_Serious as a heart attack, Bastone," Booth answered with a shrug and a grin. "Weird ass case. I've had some really weird ass cases over the years. That was a pretty weird one." He paused. "Come to think of it, some of the weirdest ones have involved animals, or people that act like animals. Ugh. I had this other one, a couple of years ago, a guy was found dead near this special resort for people who—"_

"_Wait." Bastone shot him a strange look. "Is this some kind of sex thing?" he asked. "You know, 'cause if it is, I really don't want to hear about it."_

_Booth raised a sympathetic hand. "You're right," he said. "Enough about all that crap. You don't want to hear all my crazy stories about my weird-ass cases."_

_Bastone took a long drag on his cigarette. "Actually," he said. "I do—but I think you should save those stories for when we get over there, you know." _

"_What? Why?" Booth asked, narrowing his eyes as he raised his glass to his lips._

_Flicking his ash in the tray, Bastone shrugged and looked at Booth, rolling his lips between his teeth as he gathered his thoughts. "I want the kid sergeants to hear these stories—one, so they can see that you aren't just some derelict reenlistee that came back in when his wife left him or when he lost his job or whatever. You know, so they can see that you're an asset to the unit 'cause of the experiences you've had, not just in the Gulf War, Kosovo and all that, but with the FBI. And two, so they can see that you can have an exciting life and career outside of the Army. Guys like Makovsky, Lukas, Swann, Hackett—I don't want to see those guys be lifers like me." He lowered his voice, took another long pull on his Marlboro, and continued. "I wanna see 'em get the fuck outta the Army when we're all done with this shit and make something of themselves, you know, while they still have all their bits and pieces. While they're still young."_

Booth stared at the keyboard, tapping his fingernail on the "d" key as he tried to figure out how to begin. He cupped his hand over his eyes and took a deep breath.

_Dear Darleen,_

_My name is SGM Seeley J. Booth, and I served with your husband, 1SG Louis Bastone for six and a half months, first at Ft. Bragg and later in Afghanistan. I know that there is nothing that I can say that would bring you much comfort in the wake of losing your husband, but I want you to know that he was great guy, a man of incredible courage, unfailing dedication and unassailable honor, and he was a true friend and brother to those of us who served with him. He was my right hand man, and over the months that we served together, he became a close and dear friend..._

Booth stopped typing and rubbed the back of his head and brought his hand over the top of his head, gripping his temples with his thumb and forefingers as he felt his eyes and nose begin to burn. He sucked in a hard breath and gritted his teeth, clenching the sides of his head between his fingers like a vise, trying to feel something other than the pain, but it didn't seem to make a difference. He squeezed his eyes shut and grunted in a last desperate attempt to hold back the tears, but that, too, proved futile.

He pushed the laptop away from the edge of the desk with his casted hand.

With an angry growl, he sat back in his chair and began to cry.

* * *

><p><strong><span>AN:** _Poor Booth. He's trying. But it's so hard._

_Do you want more? I sure want to give you more. In fact, I'm dying to tell you the rest of this story._

_I pour my heart and soul into each of these chapters and I'm desperate to know what you think of the direction I'm taking the story. __So, please, don't leave me hanging. Leave a review. Your reviews feed my muse. My well-fed muse keeps this story coming more quickly._

_Tell me what you think. Don't just read and run._

_Thanks._

* * *

><p><strong><span>Editorial note<span>:** _The song that Booth was listening to in the gym was "_**New Divide**_" by_ **Linkin Park**. _Oh, and the case involving giving steriods to rodeo bulls_—that's a real scenario; huge scandal in the rodeo world several years ago. Google it, people. __


	23. The Tomcat's Cry

**Killing Two Birds**

* * *

><p><strong>By:<strong> dharmamonkey  
><strong>Rated:<strong> M  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> _Hart Hanson owns _Bones_. But people like me who play in his sandbox give you all those delicious little moments that Hart and friends leave out. In this case, AU do-overs for that gap between Seasons 5 and 6 that wrought so much havoc for our heroes. That's why you read fanfic._

* * *

><p><strong><span>AN:**

**Acronyms/terminology**: _A reviewer noted that I'm using some acronyms/lingo the meaning of which may not be immediately evident. Here are some you'll want to take note of because they show up in this chapter:_

**NCO: **_Non-commissioned officer_

**ETS: **_End of Term of Service, an Army phrase describing a soldier leaving the Army at the end of his enlistment._

**ANA:**_ Afghan National Army _

_So, anyways—alright, without further ado, let's go back to Bagram._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 23: The Tomcat's Cry<strong>

* * *

><p>Brennan stood over a magnifying lamp examining a manubrium for traces of antemortem bruising. She had noticed something peculiar about this particular manubrium when she first picked it up, and under magnification noted the damaged fibers of the cortical tissue. The pattern of the damage was consistent with the individual having been shot at close-to medium-range by a high-energy, rifle-caliber projectile while wearing body armor, which injury had largely remodeled prior to death. Brennan guessed the injury occurred three to four months prior to death. She took a breath and glanced over at the file laying open on the table next to her. Her finger located the entry she was looking for, and with a silent shrug she jotted a note on her worksheet, returned the manubrium to its proper place on the table, next to the cervical vertabrae.<p>

She then picked up the carefully-reconstructed skull, turning it over in her hands as she compared its features to the photograph in the file. She looked at the skull, in her mind layering on the skin, fleshy cheeks, eyes and other features that made the bone a recognizable person, and felt a flash of lightheadedness as she was suddenly reminded how the skull in her hands could have been that of her partner, had he allowed the detachment's other designated marksman to assume the overwatch position that afternoon. She frowned and shook off the thought, then set the pitted, fractured skull back down on the steel table.

She reached down and increased the volume on her iPod as Béla Fleck and the Flecktones launched into one of her favorites, "Sinister Minister." Their fusion of jazz, rock and bluegrass kept her spirits high while she worked. It puzzled her that this particular assignment had affected her so deeply, since it was neither the first mass casualty case she had worked—the reality being that she had worked mass grave sites from Bosnia to the Congo to Iraq as well as having spent two months at Ground Zero after 9/11, picking fractured human remains out of the rubble of the Twin Towers—nor the first time she had worked a case involving remains of a person known by or closely associated with someone close to her. _There was that boyfriend of Angela's, _she thought. She found herself struggling to compartmentalize, and the fact that she felt that working with these remains disturbed her sense of inner calm further eroded whatever inner calm she seemed to have left. She shook her head again, trying once more to jettison the thought as she pulled up the digital radiograph of the skull's dentition and compared it to the records furnished by the dental clinic at Ft. Bragg.

It was a match. Between the long-remodeled ulnar fracture—the kind she had seen a hundred times before, usually the result of a childhood fall off a bicycle—together with the bullet-bruised manubrium and the match on the dentals, she knew she had resolved another one.

She let her gaze linger on the file photograph, made a few more notes on her worksheet and closed the file, returning the file to the box before retrieving another. No sooner had she opened the file folder when her cell phone chimed in her hip pocket, indicating that she had received a text.

INCOMING MESSAGE: BOOTH  
><em>Sent u email wltr attached. Pls print it for me. Thx._

Brennan pursed her lips as she considered her response, then quickly thumbed a message back:

_No problem. How are you doing?_

She set the phone down on the table and smiled faintly as she waited for Booth's response, remembering how he had teased her for her refusal to use the truncated slang of text-speak. A few moments later, her phone chimed again.

_OK. Very tired. Lonely. Miss being w/u during day. Feels like I'm in detention. _

A few more moments passed and a second message chimed.

_When will u & Wendell be ready for p/u?_

Brennan furrowed her brow, then rolled her eyes as she figured out the meaning of his shorthand, then thumbed back a response.

_Is 1 hr okay? We are just about finished w/a couple of items then we can wrap things up for the day. Will that work for you?_

She closed the file and walked back over to her laptop. She turned her phone over in her hand, staring at it expectantly, surprised that Booth had not responded immediately. He was normally pretty quick to turn around a text message, even typing with just one hand. She set the phone down and surveyed the set of remains before her. This one, while severely damaged compared to many of the remains that came to the Jeffersonian Medico-Legal Lab, was actually one of the less severely compromised sets among the twenty-one from Marjeh. The body, like all of the others, had been badly burned, suffered numerous fractures and showed signs of exposure to a high-explosive at a distance of more than fifteen but less than forty feet. The left forearm and the entire right arm had been traumatically amputated at or near the time of death, likely as a result of the explosion based on the particulars of the skeletal disarticulation, the severe pitting, superficial flash-burns and the fact that there was no evidence of bleeding at the wound locations. She glanced over at the feet, which Wendell had carefully removed from the burned remnants of the decedent's boots, the laces of each of which were threaded through a dog tag. The charred, torn boots sat next to the carefully-arranged tarsal, metatarsal and phalangeal bones of the decedent's feet. She began to reach over to examine one of the boots when her phone chimed again.

_Did you ID anyone today?_

_Yes, _she thumbed back. _Two IDs completed today. I will give you details when you pick us up._

She stared at her phone and sighed. Less than thirty seconds later, the phone chimed again.

_Don't tell GG but I wanna come in 2 pay respects to my 2 ID'd guys, pls. _

A couple of seconds passed and another message flashed on her screen.

_Please, Bones…_

Brennan swallowed, her nose tingling as she felt her partner's sadness, in that moment, as if it were her own. She closed her eyes as she tried to hold back her tears, drumming her fingers on the edge of the stainless steel table before punching back a reply.

_Of course, Booth. See you in 1 hr._

* * *

><p>Booth peeled his patrol cap off his head as he walked into the hangar. He walked slowly, and the skin around his eyes still burned from being rubbed nearly raw after the tears he shed that afternoon while writing the letter to Bastone's wife, Darleen. He remembered being introduced to her, two days before the men of Alpha 3623 slung their duffel bags over their shoulders and climbed aboard the first of a series of military transports that would take them to Afghanistan.<p>

"_Oh, hey," Bastone gently steered his wife and son through the crowd of soldiers and their families that were assembled in a gymnasium at Ft. Bragg, his hand resting on the small of her back as he smiled at her. "Hey, Booth!" he called out._

_Booth turned around. He had said his goodbyes to Parker and Pops during a visit to D.C. the weekend before. Brennan was already in Maluku, and the rest of the squint squad had already parted ways. He had no one to say goodbye to, so he had been milling around the gym, smiling and shaking hands with the kid sergeants' parents, girlfriends, fiancées and wives._

"_Darleen, I want you to meet Sergeant Major Booth," Bastone said with a wide grin. Mrs. Bastone smiled sweetly, but Booth saw her eyes were rimmed with tears and full of sadness. He looked down and saw the six year-old boy who held her left hand tightly, his own eyes red-rimmed and his lips pouting. Booth lifted his gaze and saw how her right hand palmed her rounded belly._

_She reached out and shook Booth's hand. "Lou has told me a lot about you, Sergeant Ma—" _

"_Booth," he corrected her. "Just call me Booth."_

_She smiled. "Okay, Booth," she replied. "Lou has told me a lot about you. He says you are just coming back to the Army after ten years with the FBI."_

_Booth nodded. "Yeah," he said, a vague wistfulness in his voice that Mrs. Bastone seemed to notice, judging by the slight narrowing of her eyes. "That's right. In my other life, I'm Special Agent Booth of the D.C. Field Office. But for the next year I'm Sergeant Major Booth, and will be looking to your husband and Master Sergeant Kennedy to help keep these kids in line over there."_

"_Take care of him, Booth," she said quietly. "All of you guys, take care of yourselves over there."_

"_Yes, ma'am," Booth replied. "We will." He glanced over at Bastone and then back to his wife. "Lou's an old tomcat. He'll be alright, and he'll show the other boys how it's done."_

Brennan looked up from her examination when she heard the hangar door creak open and Booth walk in. She peeled off her gloves and stepped away from the table, leaving the remains, tentatively identified as Warrant Officer Richard Sivick based on the dog tags threaded through the half-melted bootlaces, laying just as they were.

Booth's features were drawn and it was clear from the way his eyes looked—tired, the skin around them slightly puffy and dark circles hanging below them—that he had endured an emotional afternoon. Her heart sank at the sight of him, but she nibbled her lip and forced herself to smile as she walked towards him. She did not want him coming a step closer to any of the unpackaged remains.

"Hey, Bones," he whispered as she wrapped her arms around him. She brought her hand up and cupped the back of his head as he buried his nose in her shoulder and sighed.

"It's okay, Booth," she said to him, her voice low and even as she stroked her fingers over the fuzz on the nape of his neck. She felt him shudder silently, and knew he was holding back tears. "Shhhh," she whispered. "It's okay."

He nuzzled into her shoulder once more, then sniffed and pulled away. "Did you print the letter?" he asked, his voice ragged.

She nodded, squeezing his hand gently before he pulled it away. "Yes, of course."

Booth took a deep breath and looked over at the tables nearest the far wall of the hangar where Wendell had been working. Two black body bags lay on adjacent tables. "Who are they?" he asked grimly, grinding his jaw as he closed his eyes, sighing again as he tried to summon the strength that seemed to him in such short supply lately.

Brennan turned and rubbed his lower back as she led him towards the body bags. "That one," she said, pointing to the one on the left, "is Sergeant First Class Caleb Lukas." Booth blinked but said nothing, then turned his head to the other zipped-up vinyl bag.

"And that one?" he asked, his voice empty but his eyes glistening with sadness.

"Sergeant Timothy Clancy," she replied. "One of the—"

"Young guy—he was one of the door gunners from the aircrew," Booth said quickly. "I didn't know him well. They were barracksed separately from us."

Brennan stood in silence and watched as her partner walked over to Lukas' body. He reached out and touched the corner of the black vinyl bag with his healthy hand, stroking the slick, cool material with his fingers as he took a deep breath. Though a voice inside of her urged her to walk over and comfort him, another voice, a louder one, urged her to hold back. _He needs to do this, _that voice told her. _It's going to be difficult, and painful, and heart-crushing, but he needs to make peace with each of these losses on his own. _She swallowed as she saw his shoulders slump and heard his voice, low and gravelly, speak in a hushed tone to the man in the body bag. _On his own, Brennan, in the sense that you can be there to comfort him later, as you will of course, but let him have this moment. He can't run from this, from these feelings. He has to do this. Let him do it, and be there for him once he's done it._

"Lukas," Booth whispered. "I'm sorry, buddy...I...this isn't the way it was supposed to be." His words rolled out of his throat, almost liquid the way they came, choked with the tears that he was struggling to hold at bay.

_Booth, Bastone and Lukas walked through the alley, each with his weapon locked and loaded, a round in the chamber and his index finger flush against the action of his rifle, ready to hug the trigger at any moment. They watched the seven ANA troopers ahead of them as they made their way from one end of the alley that ran between the local mosque and the neighborhood bazaar._

"_I think I wanna be a cop," Lukas said, briefly glancing over to Booth out of the corner of his eye before he turned around, checking behind them as they passed out of the late afternoon shadows back into the sunlight._

"_You do, huh?" Booth replied. "That's good. Back in Connecticut?"_

_Lukas swung back around and scratched his chin where the strap had begun to chafe against his sweaty skin. "Yeah," he said with a smile. "I was looking into applying to join the Connecticut State Police—you know, when I get back home. My ETS date is two months after we're supposed to get back."_

"_Staties," Booth grinned. _

"_What?" Lukas shot him a confused look._

"_That's what we in the FBI call the state police," Booth explained. "Staties, ya know." _

_Lukas shrugged. "Yeah, I mean, after hearin' you talk about all the cool shit you do with the FBI, I'd love to be in the FBI, but they require a college degree, which I don't have, you know." He sighed. "I thought about maybe applying to Southern Connecticut State, you know, in New Haven—my brother lives there, so I can live with him—but I don't know if I would do so good in college. I'm kinda more of an action-type guy, not really into books and tests and stuff."_

_Booth narrowed his eyes as he watched the ANAs slow their advance. One of the ANA NCOs gestured for the group to hold back while he visually examined a pile of trash along the wall of a structure about forty feet from where Booth, Bastone and Lukas stood. After a few seconds, the ANA sergeant signaled to his men to continue, and Booth turned to Lukas._

"_Hey, Lukas," he said. "You know that, when you go through the State Police Academy, you'll be studying your ass off. I mean, it's not four years of college, but you'll have to study your ass off, do homework, read, answer questions in class, take exams—you know, all that shit. It's tough. It's like college, but compressed. Don't be fooled into thinking you'll just skate in there, blow them away with your Green Beret brilliance and get issued a badge, a gun and a Sam Browne belt just on account of your personal awesomeness. You know that, right?"_

_Bastone laughed. "Assuming, for the sake of argument, that the Sergeant First Class has any personal awesomeness to take account of," he noted with a heavy measure of Brooklyn snark._

"_I have plenty of personal awesomeness, Top," Lukas replied. "But yeah, I know what you mean—but you know what I mean about getting four-year degree. I'm just not sure that's my kind of gig."_

"_Yeah," Booth said. "I hear ya. Just don't be deceived into thinking that going into law enforcement is a way to avoid taking tests. You thought the course to get your sergeant's stripes was hard? The state police academy will be harder, I assure you."_

_Lukas narrowed his eyes and shrugged. "Roger that, over," he said with a smile. _

_Booth cocked an eyebrow and shot Bastone a knowing look. "Just sayin'."_

Bringing his hand to rub the back of his head, Booth took a deep, ragged breath. "You're going home, Lukas," he said in a tear-choked voice. "I'll write your letter tomorrow, okay, kid? I want to tell your mom, dad and brother what a good kid you were, and how you were a really important part of our team, and..." His voice trailed off as he blinked away a tear and rubbed the dampness from his eyes. "I'm sorry you didn't get to live out your dream of being a cop. You'd have been a damn good cop, Lukas. Connecticut State Police or Bridgeport PD would have been lucky to have you. I'd have taken you as part of my team, you know, at the FBI—setting aside the whole college degree thing, you know...You'da made a great fuckin' cop. I'm sorry, buddy." His voice became thick and he gritted his teeth as he clenched his fist. "You were a good kid. I'll miss you." Booth pounded the side of his closed fist against the steel tabletop a couple of times, not in anger but as if to get Lukas' attention one last time. "Love ya, bro."

He stood there for several moments in silence, his shoulders rising and falling as he breathed deeply and tried to collect himself. He leaned his head back and sighed, then turned around, shrugging as his watery, red-rimmed brown eyes met his partner's.

"I'm so sorry, Booth," she said as he walked into her arms once more. She rubbed his back as he began to sob, and she held him close, cupping the back of his head once more and stroking the back of his neck with her fingertips as he cried into her shoulder. She turned her head slightly and kissed his temple, but said nothing. She let him cry, feeling each one of his sobs pass through her as his powerful frame shuddered against hers. For a couple of minutes she let him cry, rubbing circles against his back as tears streaked down her own cheeks. She kissed his shoulder and felt him shake his head.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled between sobs.

"Shhhh," she whispered to him. "Don't be sorry. It's okay_._" She sucked in a breath through her teeth as she felt his occipitalis muscle tighten beneath the thin layer of soft fuzz on the back of his head as his jaw tensed against her shoulder.

_"Shhhhh..."_

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** _A short chapter, but something happened here. What was it? Did you catch it?_

_Do you want more? I sure want to give you more. In fact, I'm dying to tell you the rest of this story._

_Please, **please**, **PLEASE**—don't read and run. __Tell me what you think._

_I pour my heart and soul into each of these chapters and I'm desperate to know what you think of the direction I'm taking the story. __So, please, don't leave me hanging. Leave a review. Your reviews feed my muse. My well-fed muse keeps this story coming more quickly._

_So please, tell me what you think..._


	24. Breakthrough

**Killing Two Birds**

* * *

><p><strong>By:<strong> dharmamonkey  
><strong>Rated:<strong> M  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> _Hart Hanson owns _Bones_. But people like me who play in his sandbox give you all those delicious little moments that Hart and friends leave out. In this case, AU do-overs for that gap between Seasons 5 and 6 that wrought so much havoc for our heroes. That's why you read fanfic._

* * *

><p><strong><span>AN:**

1) **Acronyms/terminology**: _A reviewer noted that I'm using some terminology the meaning of which may not be immediately evident. Here are some you'll want to take note of because they show up in this chapter:_

**Dover:** _Dover Air Force Base in Delaware is where remains of deceased American service personnel arrive on U.S. soil._

2) **Shout-out to my** **HHB (hugely helpful beta)****:** _Another shout-out to my friend,_ **Lesera128**_, who is the Brennan to my Booth (come on, not like that, people—think more abstractly) and who beta'd this piece and shared her thoughts with me via text message (pal, you're the reason I had to switch to an unlimited text message plan for my iPhone _**o.O**_)._

3) **Reader content alert:** ((** **KLEENEX WARNING!** **)) _This chapter is heavy. Heavy, heavy, heavy. 'Nuff said._

_So, anyways—alright, without further ado, let's go back to Bagram._

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><p><strong>Chapter 24: Breakthrough<strong>

* * *

><p>Brennan nudged Booth through the door, her fingers splayed over the space between his shoulder blades. He breathed a heavy sigh as the heavy door slammed behind them, and he turned around to face her.<p>

"I'm—"

Brennan shook her head. "Part of me thinks I shouldn't have let you go in there," she said. "It's too soon. We agreed with Gordon Gordon that—"

"No," Booth said, reaching his left hand to grasp her upper arm. "Please. I have to do something for my guys." He released her arm and shoved his hand in his pocket as he turned away. "When…when we lose a guy, you know, in combat, we'd say goodbye to him…in the field, we'd set up a Soldier's Cross with his boots, his weapon, dog tags and his helmet…have a short ceremony for the guy, his last roll call…and we'd say goodbye..."

Brennan blinked, looking away briefly before bringing her eyes back to meet his. "But—"

"I can't just let you bag these guys up and ship 'em off without…" Booth's voice trailed off as each word thickened with emotion. "Someone needs to say goodbye to them. That someone has to be me, Bones. It's gotta be me. It's _gotta _be, Bones. I'm the only one left."

"Booth—"

"No!" he grunted, his fist clenching before he caught himself and took a breath. "Lookit—listen, Bones. These guys paid the ultimate price, and for reasons I don't understand, I was left behind. I owe it to them to say goodbye somehow, so they don't just get shipped back like…" Again his voice trailed off as he struggled to make himself understood. "I'm the only one left—over here, you know—who knew them, and I'm the only one left over here who can say goodbye to them."

Brennan nodded solemnly and threaded her arms around him as he hugged her back with his healthy arm, burying his nose in the crook at the base of her neck. "Let's talk to Gordon Gordon, but maybe if just once in the afternoon, whoever we have ID'd, then you can come in, but—"

He raised his head and pulled away, brushing his lips over the space in front of her ear. "Thanks, Bones."

"But," she continued, "I think he's right. You need to stay out of that hangar for a few days, Booth, while Mr. Bray and I work."

He felt his stomach sink at her words. He remembered standing at the door to the hangar that afternoon, and the swirl of emotions—and nausea—that had washed over him in those moments before he turned the handle and entered. Though he knew all too well the hangar was full of the remains of most of his fallen comrades—only Swann and a couple of the aircrew having been identified and turned over to the 54th Quartermaster Company at that point to be prepared for transfer to Dover—it was not their presence that haunted him as he walked with heavy steps into the hangar. No, it was not the knowledge of what was being done within the hangar that troubled him, but rather the crushing weight of knowing what he himself had done there, to his partner, that fed the guilt that he felt strangling him as he passed under the 54th's crest and into the cool air of the hangar. For a moment, he saw her face, her gray eyes wide and her lips contorted in confused pain, blood streaming from her nose as he held his casted arm in mid-air, before he blinked the memory away.

"Can we talk to him?" Booth asked. "Tonight, I mean."

Brennan's eyes narrowed as her forehead crinkled at his words. "What?"

His cheeks flushed as he nibbled his lip, his left hand wavering at his side as he looked into her pale gray eyes. "I want to talk to him," he whispered. "Gordon Gordon. Tonight." He swallowed and took a deep breath, his shoulders raising as she watched him steel himself as he formulated his next words. "With you," he said quietly. "I want to…" His head fell and he sniffed away the threatening tears. "I want to talk to him about yesterday—what happened between us in the hangar. When—"

"Booth—"

"—when I hit you," he choked, his voice barely audible.

"Are you sure?" she asked, her tone of voice betraying that she herself was not entirely sure she was ready for that conversation.

"I have to," he whispered. "We have to. It's driving me crazy thinking about it."

"Okay," she said, pulling her phone out of her pocket as she glanced at the time—8:30—and thumbed through her contacts until she found Gordon Wyatt and pressed the green dial button.

Booth watched her, his eyes wide with nervous expectation as she held the phone to her ear. Her eyes darted from side to side as she listened to the ring tone, and he saw her head jerk and her eyes blink as a squeaky voice chirped on the other end of the line.

"Hello?" she said. "I'm sorry to call you at such an inconvenient hour, but—"

"Yes," she assured him. "He's alright, it's just—" Booth narrowed his eyes as he tried to listen in on the conversation but the chirpy voice was too faint for him to make out he words.

Brennan nodded and held her hand up—it wasn't clear whether for Booth's benefit or Gordon Gordon's—before speaking. "He—well, we—were wondering if you possibly could talk to him now."

Booth felt his heart begin to race. _Please, _he prayed. She turned and saw the anxious, uncertain expression in his deep brown eyes and she closed her eyes with a deep nod.

"Okay, sure," she said, her voice awash in relief. "Ten minutes? Thank you—that will be fine. Talk to you then."

She hung up, reached over and palmed Booth's jaw, then let her hand fall again as she breathed a deep sigh.

* * *

><p>Gordon Wyatt heard his computer beep quietly as Skype connected the video conference with <em>BroadStreetBully24, <em>and smiled as he saw the widescreen of his laptop fill with the image of Booth and Brennan seated on her bed. Clad in a simple pair of yoga pants and a cap-sleeved T-shirt, she sat cross-legged, her back ramrod-straight, supported by two pillows. Booth, dressed in gray sweats and a black tank-style T-shirt, sat in a more reclined pose with his left leg raised and the other folded beneath it, letting his broken arm rest on the thigh of his right leg. He reached his hand over to grasp Brennan's, whose hand opened slightly to allow him to fold his fingers around her palm.

Booth met Gordon Gordon's eyes, blushed, then glanced over to Brennan before grinning sheepishly back at the screen. "Before you ask," he said with an arched eyebrow, "there's only one chair in the room, and after Bones having to stand all day, I couldn't really ask her to stand behind me and hunch over my shoulder while we did this. You know, 'cause she's been on her feet all day."

"I wasn't going to ask," Gordon Gordon said, unable to contain his smirk. "You must know, of course, that in matters like these, there really are no coincidences."

Brennan's gaze hardened into a glare. "You're not going to suggest that—"

"I'm suggesting nothing, Dr. Brennan," he interrupted with a wry grin. "Only noting that this discussion is taking place, on your side, in the most intimate, private space the two of you share between you. What you do with that observation is up to you."

"Bones," Booth whispered, squeezing her hand. She shrugged, then raised her chin to signal for her partner to proceed. His eyes fell to his lap as he took a breath, then he raised his face again and looked into the camera. "We, uhh…you know, didn't really get to talking about what happened yesterday morning after…well, after I read that…" His voice trailed off as he worked his jaw nervously.

Gordon Gordon narrowed his eyes for a fleeting second, then raised his coffee mug to his mouth, taking a sip before he spoke. "You read a letter to the girlfriend of one of your fallen comrades, correct?"

Booth's eyes glistened as he nodded, his gaze skating over to the window before returning to the screen. "Yeah," he said quietly. "To Sarah, Mike Swann's girlfriend." He frowned. "Swann was gonna propose to her when he got back from Afghanistan, and he talked about her all the time." He paused and smiled at a memory. "I mean, like _all _the time. They were really, really close, and—"

The Englishman raised his mug once more to his lips and sighed into his cup. He imagined there was no coincidence that Booth had bonded so swiftly and deeply with this particular young man, just twenty-two years of age. Of all the young men in Booth's unit, why was it this man—taken in the prime of his life, just as he was on the verge of proclaiming his deep love and commitment to the woman in his life—whose passing cut Booth so deeply?

"Do you still have a copy of this letter?" he asked. Booth's mouth gaped open a little as Brennan nudged his thigh with their clasped hands.

"Yes," he whispered.

Gordon Gordon hesitated then, squinting one eye, said, "Would you mind reading it to me?"

"Why?" Booth asked, his brow knit low over his dark, deeply-set eyes.

The Englishman smiled faintly and cocked his head. "I am trying to understand what was going through your mind in the minutes before—" He pressed his lips together tightly and noted the flicker behind Booth's eyes, and knew he didn't need to give a name to what had happened between them the day before.

Booth brought his leg down and assumed a cross-legged position, then leaned forward and minimized the Skype window, then called up the folder where he had saved the letters to the Swanns, Sarah and Darleen Bastone. He opened Sarah's letter and, sucking in a long, deep breath, began to read.

… _Mike loved you very much, and was always talking about how excited he was to get back to you so you two could get on to building your life together. He believed in love, and had a deep abiding faith that true love was cosmic and transcendent. Although he is no longer with us, and my heart breaks for you, I came to believe that he was right, and that true love is transcendent. I know that his love for you and the things you shared together will always be a part of you, for all the rest of the days of your life._

_I will pray every night that God give you the strength to endure and cherish the love you two had together, which love I believe transcends the boundaries of time and space that hold us in this world we live in…_

Brennan blinked, loosening one of the tears that had gathered in the corner of her glistening eye as she listened to him read. Booth rounded his lips and exhaled a hard-falling breath, as if he had just completed a fast run up a flight of stairs. For his part, Gordon Wyatt leaned back in his brass-tacked desk chair and flashed his eyebrows once as he took another sip of coffee from his Interpol mug.

"That was a tremendously moving letter," he said, his voice low and genuine. "You are a very good writer, Booth."

Booth wiped the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand and smiled through his blush. "Thanks," he said with a snuffle. "I was…it 's just, well, Swann was the first guy in the Alpha to befriend me when I showed up at Ft. Bragg, you know—"

"Why do you think you formed such a swift, deep bond with this man, Swann?" Gordon Gordon asked him, squinting his eyes as he awaited the response.

Booth shrugged. "I—when I showed up at Bragg, I kinda got put through the paces by the other guys, you know, and—"

"Hazed, you mean?" the Englishman asked. "So there was some sort of hazing ritual that you had to endure before being accepted by the rest of the men in the unit as one of them?" Brennan listened quietly but silently checked a box on her mental list of anthropologically typical behaviors for policing entry into and modulating the assignment of status in an all-male paramilitary organization.

"Well," Booth said with a faint smile. "Yeah."

"And this young man in a sense defied that system of ritualized hazing by extending a hand of friendship to you at that early stage?"

Booth glanced away and thought about that. "Well, yeah, I suppose he did."

Gordon Gordon nodded and glanced into his nearly-empty coffee cup. "So this young man was, in his own way, a bit of a rebellious spirit?"

Brennan smirked as she watched the Englishman walk Booth, using the Socratic method, from a set of observations toward a set of conclusions, something she had done countless times with her students over the years.

"Sure," Booth said. "I guess I always liked that about him. Swann always kinda hung back a little from the other guys, didn't always fall in lock step with the others. But everyone always liked him anyways."

"Why do you think this young man was attracted to you?" Gordon Gordon asked. "Of course, I don't mean that in the sexual sense, but…obviously, I mean, why do you think he found you so interesting and likeable, even though you were—what?—seventeen years older than he was, and outranked him by several grades?"

Booth shifted his hips against the bed and hugged his casted arm closer to his belly. "Aside from the fact that I'm an interesting and likeable guy?" he asked, his voice cracking slightly as he tried to hold the swell of emotions at bay with a humorous quip. "I don't know. I was nice to him, I guess."

Gordon Gordon rolled his eyes as he drained the last of his coffee. "Think about it," he gently chastised Booth. "Here's a young man, a bit of a free-spirited, roguish personality, deeply religious, selfless and brave, who loved deeply and completely and believed in the existence of a larger, mystical force that steered us through the events of our lives." He paused. "Surely this reminds you of someone, Booth.

"Ummm…"

"Do you think he perhaps identified with you because he saw you as an older version of himself?"

Rubbing the burning dampness from his eyes, Booth shrugged. "I guess so," he answered quietly. His nostrils flared as he remembered the way Swann looked at him, wide-eyed, high-browed and grinning, as Booth had told him about the work he did with the FBI.

"Well," the Englishman said as he reached over and refilled his mug with piping hot coffee from a nearby French press. "I would therefore posit that perhaps you, Booth, identified so closely with this young man Swann because in him you saw a younger version of _your_self."

Booth's eyes flashed and watered. "He died so young," he murmured, just loud enough that he could be heard on the other end of the Skype video call. "He was ready to get out and to move on with his life. He loved this girl, Sarah, so much, _so _much, and he wanted to get back to Dubuque and ask her to marry him, to get back to the life he had waiting for him there, the job his dad was holding open for him as a salesman at the family John Deere tractor dealership. And all of it, you know. He had this whole life ahead of him, and—"

Gordon Gordon blew across the brim of his mug to cool the coffee. "But the helicopter crash and his death extinguished all of that," he said quietly, knowing he was stating the obvious but knowing also that it had to be said.

"Yes," Booth whispered, his head dropping and turning to the side as a tear streaked down his angular cheekbone.

"So was it after this—reading that letter—that you struck Dr. Brennan?"

"No," Booth and Brennan answered in unison, their eyes meeting as each one seemed surprised that the other had answered just then.

"No," Booth said. "I—"

Brennan edged in. "No—Booth went back to his area of the hangar and sat down, then began to cry. He broke down, metaphorically speaking."

"Bones," Booth growled quietly.

"There's no shame in crying," she told him, her eyes snapping up to meet Wyatt's before swiveling once more to meet Booth's tear-logged, red-rimmed brown eyes. "Considering the trauma and the loss you've endured, and—"

"So you sat down and vented those emotions," Gordon Gordon said, interrupting Brennan, disinclined at that moment to allow her to, as Booth would say, _squintify_ the situation. There was a time and a place, and this wasn't it. "But that was not when you struck her? What happened?"

Booth closed his eyes and sighed, rubbing his hand over inch-long hair covering the crown of his head. "I had one of my memories, you know," he said softly. "The ones that come to me, sort of randomly. A flashback." Seeing the Englishman's eyes narrow, he nodded and added, "About Iraq, when I was there back in 1990." He drew a long breath and shook his head once, looking up and away as the recollection of the memory seemed to suck him back into it all over again.

_Booth exhaled slowly as he focused his thoughts on slowing his heartbeat. Each breath seemed to expand to take up all of the slack in his mind and for a few moments he nearly forgot where he was. Then he heard fabric brushing against fabric, and the soft crunch of a boot sliding across sand, and he felt his heartbeat quicken._

"_Corporal," he hissed. "What's wrong?"_

"_Nothing," Parker whispered back. "It's just—"_

"_Simmer down there," Booth growled, never once moving his eye from its place behind the scope of his rifle. "Stay down, alright?"_

Brennan looked over at Booth as he recounted the memory, then to the laptop screen and met Gordon Wyatt's eyes. He pursed his lips and nodded vaguely, but said nothing as Booth continued.

_Booth's nostrils flared as he felt his exhaling breath stream over his upper lip. He felt a wave of panic as the realization dawned on him that, while he had all the confidence in the world that he could take out the Republican Guard sniper, he was suddenly overcome with a dark, unshakeable sense of foreboding that he didn't understand. He took another long breath and held it for a couple of seconds before exhaling it again, turning the dial on the top of his scope to adjust for windage._

_Booth narrowed his eye slightly as he focused on the shadow in the distance. As the clouds parted in the sky above, he caught the moonlight briefly flash against the opposing sniper's scope. He began to gently squeeze the trigger when he felt a _fwip_ sound next to him and what sounded like a hard punch as Parker's shoulder twirled to the right, followed by a sharp gasp and the crack of the other sniper's rifle report._

"_Teddy!"_

Brennan turned to her partner. "Teddy Parker?" she asked, her face suddenly drawn and her pale eyes filled with sadness at remembering being with Booth at Arlington and watching the young woman place flowers on the long-dead corporal's grave. Booth's eyes, full of tears, met hers and, with a gentle nod, he blinked, sending another round of tears dribbling down his face.

_He reached over to Parker and rolled him onto his back as he ducked below the gently sloping rise of the irrigation canal. His heart pounded in his chest as he saw how much blood had already oozed through the corporal's desert camo BDUs. Taking a moment to wonder if the Iraqi sniper had already closed up shop on the other side of the _wadi_—guessing that, talented as he was, he probably had—Booth lifted Parker up and slung the injured man's left arm over his shoulder as he tried to get him to walk. Parker's knees sagged almost immediately, nearly a dead weight as he hung from Booth's shoulder, and it was clear that he had already lost enough blood that he was not going to be able to move under his own power. With a loud grunt, Booth picked him up and draped him over his shoulders in a fireman's carry._

"_Hang on, Teddy," he told him as he ran through the _wadi_, the inch-deep water splashing around his feet. "You're gonna make it…"_

"But he didn't, did he?" Wyatt said, knowing in that moment that his phrasing was harsh, perhaps to the point of being insensitive, but knowing he had to pull Booth through the pain that he could emerge stronger on the other side of it. "Hang on, that is? He didn't."

"No," Booth said, his reply swallowed into a sob as he covered his face with the fingers of his free hand. "He didn't. I couldn't save him. The bleeding, you know—it was too much, too fast, everywhere, and…" His voice trailed off as he felt all of his senses slipping once more into the memory.

_He heard the chopper approach from a distance as he fell to his knees, letting Parker's limp body slide off his shoulders and onto the wet sand of the _wadi._ Booth knew he was already dead. He had felt the corporal's weak pulse flutter beneath his fingers as he ran through the _wadi_ to the extraction point until Booth could no longer feel it at all. By the time he'd laid Parker down in the sand, he knew he'd lost him. _

"_No," he whispered as he wiped the beads of sweat off Parker's cold, clammy forehead. "No…no…no…"_

_Parker's mouth hung open but the rise and fall of his chest had ceased, and Booth saw his hands laying palms up, loosely open and still. _

_He looked up as the helicopter circled overhead, and he clenched his eyes shut as he howled in guilty anguish. "No—" _

Gordon Gordon covered his mouth with his hand as he thought back to a therapy session, years before, when Booth had first related to him the story of his son's namesake and how each year he was forced to face what had happened in Iraq, and the consequences thereof, when he saw his spotter's girlfriend make her annual pilgrimage to his grave. Gordon Gordon nodded and drummed his fingers on the side of his Interpol mug. "So," he said gently, "this young man, too, left behind a woman he loved."

Booth's brows knit low over his dark, tearful, narrowed eyes. "Yes," he whispered, working his jaw from side to side as he shook his head vigorously, trying to rid himself of the memory—the deep, resonating sound of the helicopter rotors, the smell of Parker's blood pooling on the wet sand along the edge of the _wadi, _the ashen color of his face as his pulse fluttered away and then vanished altogether_. _

"But this man," Gordon Gordon continued, "never told the woman he loved that he loved her, did he?"

Brennan continued to listen, her eyebrow arched as Wyatt steadily moved Booth methodically towards some kind of logical conclusion, but one that was not immediately evident to her.

"No, he never did," Booth admitted, a hardness forming in his throat as realization began to slowly wash over him. "I—when, you know, when the Gravedigger kidnapped me and…you know…I was in that ship, and he came to me…" His words faded as his fingers dug into his scalp. "He asked me why I never talked to her—to Clare, his girl—even though I saw her at Arlington every year."

"Why didn't you?" Gordon Gordon asked. "Or don't you—assuming you still have not exchanged words with this woman?"

Booth's hand fell away from his head and he looked up, gazing directly into the camera. "After I got outta that ship, Bones and I went to Arlington, to Teddy's grave. Clare was there, and for the first time…twenty years after Teddy's..." He winced as his nostrils burned with another wave of emotion. "I talked to her. I told her that Teddy had loved her."

For several moments, no one spoke. Booth turned to Brennan, his eyes still full of sadness, and she leaned over, letting her head fall onto his shoulder.

"Agent Booth," Gordon Gordon said, wincing as he realized the slip the moment the words left his mouth. "Do you see a similarity between these two men? A theme here, if you will?"

Booth raised an eyebrow. "Umm…" he murmured. He swallowed hard and sucked in a deep breath through his teeth as he tried to even his breathing despite the swirl of feelings that bubbled in his chest. "Swann loved a woman, who knew she loved him, and that he loved her, but maybe didn't know he loved her enough to marry her—and Parker loved a woman who did not know that he loved her…though she clearly loved him, and still does, I guess, since she visits his grave every year on the anniversary of his death." He shook his head with a sigh. "And they're both dead."

"And, indeed, their deaths cut off the possibility that they would be able to reveal these truths to the women they loved?"

"Because I couldn't save 'em," Booth choked. "Either of them. Neither of—"

Gordon Gordon's brow furrowed deeply. "We discussed this, Booth," he said, a faint edge of frustration evident in his voice. "There was really nothing you could have done to save either of these men, was there?"

Booth's jaw hardened but he said nothing, turning away to stare at the streetlight out the window.

"_Was_ there?"

Brennan squeezed his bicep. "Booth," she whispered.

"No!" Booth growled. "But—"

"Maybe," Gordon Gordon stepped in once more. "Perhaps what bothers you, right now, is less that you were unable to save these men from their deaths which cut off their ability to reveal their love to these women, but more…" He paused, glancing at Brennan and then returning his patient gaze to Booth, whose features were rigid as his mind seemed to grind away furiously at what was being discussed.

"What?" he grunted. "Don't play that shrinky-ass game where I have to guess, alright? Because if I knew what the fuck was wrong with me, and I knew how to fucking fix it, I'd have fucking fixed it already, okay?"

Gordon Gordon took a long, slow breath through his nose as he saw Booth's frustration spike. He knew he was walking a fine line, especially with Brennan sitting right there next to him. "Is it possible that what really bothers you is that these men's deaths, in foreclosing the realization of their love for these women, is a stark reminder of how close _you_ came to not living long enough to have your love for Dr. Brennan here realized?"

Booth stared hard at the laptop screen.

"Perhaps, your real fear isn't that you didn't save them—keeping them alive to realize their love—but rather that you will do something today that will extinguish the love that you've finally realized?"

The color drained from Booth's face and the tension in his facial muscles almost immediately slackened as his shoulders sagged. "So you're saying I hit Bones because I was afraid I'd push her away?" he asked, his voice thick and liquid with feeling. "Or because I was pushing her away? Either way, that doesn't make any sense."

"On a conscious level, no," the Englishman explained, his voice suddenly softer.

"But you _did_ push me away, Booth," Brennan said firmly. "You didn't say anything, but after you hit me, you pushed me away."

"Did I?" Booth stared at her. "I don't remember," he confessed. "It's all a blur. I don't remember what exactly happened. It's like…it's as if…it doesn't make any sense, I guess, but it's like someone else was in control of my body—"

Her jaw hardened as she remembered every second, every moment of what transpired that morning. The way he kept moaning _"No…no…no…"_ The way his casted arm had arched back and swung into her face, the hard, almost crystalline surface of the black fiberglass mesh abrading the side of her nose as the force of his blow jerked her head back. The snuffling, gurgling sound as she tried to breathe through her bleeding nose. The way he had shoved her away, pressing his good hand, its fingers splayed wide as he pushed her, his wide eyes wild with an unreadable emotion that seemed to scream only pain.

"You pushed me away, Booth," she said, her voice even more insistent. "I've been here for you—I came all the way from Maluku for you, and since then have been here for you, helping you, comforting you, loving you."

Gordon Gordon shifted in his seat. "How did it make you feel when he physically pushed you away like that, Dr. Brennan?"

"I felt angry," she said.

"Why did that make you feel angry?" he asked her, his eyes darting briefly to watch for any change in Booth's confused, sad expression.

Brennan turned to Booth. "I tried," she said. "I tried everything. Everything I could think of." Her words came in pants as her face flushed with emotion. "And then some. I opened myself up to you. I gave you everything. Everything, Booth—all of me—more than I've ever given to any other person in my life. And you pushed me away." She leveled a hard stare at him. "You pushed me away. After all that, _all of it,_ all that I'd given you, you pushed me away."

Booth's nostrils flared and the blood roared in his ears as he felt his chest compressed as if by a heavy weight. "You punched me," he said weakly.

Gordon Gordon cleared his throat and sat up straighter in his brass-tacked chair. "You hit him?" he asked with surprise. "You hit Booth?"

For a moment, the two of them had entirely forgotten about the laptop in the middle of the bed. Wyatt's voice squawked through the laptop's tinny speakers and shook them out of their respective stormy spaces. Brennan turned and stared at the screen. "Yes," she admitted. "I punched him. Well, first, I grabbed his shirt and shook him—literally tried to shake some sense into him. But, when that didn't…"

"You hit him?"

"Yes," she said evenly.

"In the gut," Booth coughed. "Hard as fuck. Knocked the damn wind out of me."

Her head turned and she glared at him, narrow-eyed. "Got your attention, didn't it?" she asked, a sneering edge to her voice.

"Why did you hit him, Dr. Brennan?" Gordon Gordon asked. "After he hit you, and then pushed you away. _Why_ did you do that?"

Brennan swallowed, then swiveled her gaze to look into the laptop's clip-on camera. "I was angry," she said again.

"Why were you angry?" the Englishman asked, his fingers letting go of his coffee mug as he watched the spectacle in front of him.

For several long moments, Brennan stared at the patterned comforter on the bed and rolled the tips of her forefingers together in a circular motion. She shook her head. "Because…" She gritted her teeth and shook her head. "Because I was at my proverbial wit's end. I'd listened to him, tried to get him to talk to me, tried to understand what he was going through, comforted him when he woke up in the middle of the night screaming and shouting…"

She brought her legs up in front of her chest and wrapped her arms around her knees. "I loved him," she said, her voice broken as she remembered waking up and seeing him standing naked next to the window in the middle of the night. "Loved him with everything I have to give. Everything. And none of it—none of it—seemed to bring him any closer to opening up and letting me help him." She shook her head once more. "It's as if my love was inadequate for the task. It wasn't enough to make him open up."

Tears dropped from Booth's eyes as he blinked, incredulous at her words.

"I tried to," he said lamely. "But I…I didn't want to—I don't want to..." He brought his hand to the back of his head and gripped it, clawlike, as he felt a shudder pass through him. "You and Parker are the only thing left in my life that's good, and clean, and whole—I…it's…I don't want to burden you or contaminate you with what I saw down there in Helmand…or in Kosovo…or in Iraq, or Somalia, or any of the other terrible places I've been where I've done terrible things that I'm not even allowed to tell you about."

"But you have to," she said, her insistent voice nearly a grunt as she spoke forcefully. "I gave you all of me, Booth. But if you can't reciprocate and give me all of you—the good, the bad, the light, the dark, the beautiful and the ugly—then you haven't given yourself to me at all. At all. And I'll never be able to help you, and what we have here—what we seemed to have finally found between us—will never last."

"Bones…"

"It's all or nothing, isn't it, Booth?" she asked. "I guess it is like a gamble, after all. Either we give ourselves—reveal ourselves—to each other entirely, or not at all."

She looked away, unable to look into his tear-filled brown eyes in that moment as she felt herself dangling on the precipice of emotions she had never known existed, edging away from the cliff of a pain that she never knew possible. Her eyes burned intensely and she felt the tears welling up as her sinuses opened and flashed.

"Don't push me away," she whispered. "I want nothing more than to help you, Booth. I would do anything to help you, but you have to let me help you. You have to…" She rubbed the tears from her eyes with the palms of her hands. "You keep saying you're the only one left. The only one who understands. But you're wrong—"

Wyatt watched the transaction in front of him with eyes wide in fascination, his stomach clenching for the two people sitting on a cheap comforter on a bed they shared in a war zone thousands of miles away, making their way through a battlefield of another kind.

"Bones," Booth whispered, bringing his hand up to cup the top of her knee.

"No," she said firmly. "Listen to me—really, truly _listen_ to me—you're only alone as long as you hold these things inside of you. If I can't reach them, and no one else can reach them either, then yes, you'll be left all alone to deal with them. Didn't you tell me once that these kind of things aren't good kept as a secret, that you had to be honest about yourself, to be able to tell someone—didn't you tell me that? At Arlington, after the funeral for that National Guard soldier?"

Booth nodded. "Yes," he said quietly. "But—"

"No, dammit," Brennan spat. "You have to let me help you. Help me help you. Tell me what is happening." She looked over at the long black cast on his arm and sighed. "Just like how I can try to help you get the best care for your arm, but only if you tell me what your symptoms are and how it feels, right?"

He sighed, his mouth falling open as a tired sigh escaped him. "Yes…"

"In a sense, Booth, this is the same damn thing," she said. "I can't help you unless you are completely honest with me. Is it going to be hard?" Her eyes scanned his face sympathetically and she shook her head. "It will be the hardest thing you've ever done. But it's the only way. The only way you'll get past this, and the only way _we'll_ get past this, Booth. There is no other way."

He sniffed, wiping away a salty tear that had dribbled onto his upper lip. "Okay," he agreed hoarsely.

Still as a winter's day, Gordon Wyatt sat on the other end of the video conference, listening but saying nothing. He thought back to a book he had recently read, _Traditions of Compassion: From Religious Duty to Social Activism_, by Khen Lampert, and how Lampert had explained empathy as "what happens to us when we leave our own bodies...and find ourselves either momentarily or for a longer period of time in the mind of the other. We observe reality through her eyes, feel her emotions, share in her pain." He raised his mug and took a long sip of now-warm coffee and watched the couple on the other end of the call look at each other, their tear-streaked faces long but their eyes flickering with something he could only guess was hope. He remembered the counsel he had given Booth a couple of years before: _hope and patience. _These two commodities, in generous measure, would see these two through to the other side of this. He was sure of it.

Brennan broke the silence. "You should keep talking to Gordon Gordon, Booth," she said.

"I will," he promised.

"But," she said, her pale eyes narrow as she looked at him, her once-angry mouth now softened after her outburst.

"But what?" Booth asked, his voice uneven with trepidation.

"You need to talk to someone else," she said. He leaned his head back and swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he breathed another long sigh.

"Not the Army, Bones," he pleaded. "Not the Army."

"No," she whispered. "Not the Army. I know you—" She reached over and touched his jaw gently with her hand, bringing his chin down. "You need to call Hank Luttrell," she said.

Booth blinked, another tear dribbling down the side of his nose to fall on her hand. "Okay," he whispered.

At that moment, a faint smile broke across Gordon Wyatt's face as he drank the last drop of his coffee and breathed a sigh of his own, a sigh of relief.

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><p><strong>AN:** _Some heavy fucking shit happened there, huh?_

_Okay, so that's probably the most intense emotional B&B exchange I've ever written in any of my solo work. What do you think? Tell me. Please. Please, **please**, **PLEASE**—don't read and run._

_Tell me what you think about what happened in this chapter. I pour my heart and soul into each of these chapters—especially one like this—and I'm desperate to know what you think._

_So please, tell me what you think..._

_I'm dying here, folks._


	25. A Glow in the Faint Light

**Killing Two Birds**

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><p><strong>By:<strong> dharmamonkey  
><strong>Rated:<strong> M  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> _Hart Hanson owns _Bones_. But people like me who play in his sandbox give you all those delicious little moments that Hart and friends leave out. In this case, AU do-overs for that gap between Seasons 5 and 6 that wrought so much havoc for our heroes. That's why you read fanfic._

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><p><strong><span>AN:**

1) **Acronyms/terminology**: _A reviewer noted that I'm using some terminology the meaning of which may not be immediately evident. Here are some you'll want to take note of because they show up in this chapter:_

**CT Scan:** _Computed tomography, a radiological (x-ray) technique whereby a three-dimensional image of the inside of an object can be compiled from a large series of two-dimensional X-ray images taken around a single axis of rotation._

**NCS: **_Nerve conduction study, method whereby the electrical connectivity of a nerve or group of nerve is tested. Not unlike an electrical continuity check you might run on an electric circuit in your home or business._

2) **Shout-out to readers w/awesomely helpful feedback:** _ Thanks to readers like _**Costas TT**_,_** bluemuriel**_, _**NatesMama**_, _**bonesmd007**, **uscgal04, Jasper777, AvaniHeath, Lesera128 **_and others who have pointed out boo-boos, inconsistencies and offered constructive feedback that has helped make this fic better. And to all of you who have left reviews (730 when this chapter went "to press," which makes this piece by far the most widely-read and enthusiastically-received piece I've ever written). I can't tell you how much your reviews, tweets and PMs mean to me. They fuel my muse. They help keep me moving forward on this piece (we're roughly 3/4 the way through the story now). For all of that, I thank you. All of you._

3) **Reader content alert****:** _Ah yes, something wicked this way comes. You know—the deliciously wicked kind of thing that you minors and sensitive readers should back away from now. Save yourself. You've been warned._

_So, anyways—alright, without further ado, let's go back to Bagram._

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><p><strong>Chapter 25: A Glow in the Faint Light<strong>

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><p>"Hey, Parker," Booth said in bright voice as his son's face lit up the screen of Brennan's laptop. <em>Thank God for this broadband card, <em>he thought silently. The Army didn't allow use of Skype or other video calling services on its network because of bandwidth congestion. Before the accident, he'd only been able to talk to Parker once a week for fifteen minutes, but this—being able to see his face, his smile, his eyes, his expressions, and talk at length—was even better.

"Hey, Dad," the eleven year-old boy said. Booth could see his hair was damp from his shower. "How's your arm?"

"It's okay," Booth lied. "I have a checkup this morning at the hospital to see how it's healing up. I can't wait to get the cast off."

Parker grinned. "I remember when you broke your hand playing hockey," he said. "When I was younger." Booth smiled at how the young man seemed to track the events around him in terms of how old _he _was at the time they occurred. "You had a different kind of cast, though."

"That's right," Booth said. "That one was a plaster cast, and it went not quite to my elbow. This one's not as much fun."

Rebecca's voice could be heard in the background and Parker looked over his shoulder before turning back to his father. "Mom says because I did really good on my math test this week," he said, "we can talk longer tonight." Booth's ex winked at him over Parker's shoulder. Booth felt grateful that, despite some of the really bad things that had transpired between them in years past, she was being a tremendous support during his deployment.

"That's awesome, Parker. What did you get on your test?"

"I got a ninety-eight," he said with a proud, toothy grin. "Hey, Dad—where's Bones?"

Booth laughed. "She's right back here," he said, rotating the laptop on the desk to an angle where the camera could capture Brennan, who sat cross-legged on the bed reading a technical journal. She looked up from her reading and waved at the laptop.

"Hi, Parker," she said loudly, unable to suppress a wide smile at seeing Booth's brown eyes bright after the events of the previous days—and the intense discussion they'd had with Gordon Wyatt the night before. "Excellent work on that math exam," she called out, projecting her voice enough that the laptop's weak microphone would pick it up. "You did very well. I knew you could do it."

"Is Bones gonna go with you to the bone doctor this morning, Dad?" Parker asked, his eyebrows raised expectantly in one of many facial expressions that mirrored the ones his father used.

"She _is_," Booth replied with a happy nod. "Gonna take my own bone doctor to the bone doctor this morning. Just to make sure the Army's bone doctor gets it right, huh?"

"That's cool, Dad," Parker said.

Booth talked to his son for nearly an hour, grateful that Rebecca allowed him to keep the boy up so far past his usual bedtime. He loved his son, and a niggling voice in the back of his head asked him why he possibly thought it was a good idea to reenlist and go half a world away from his son. He shook his head at the thought, trying to remind himself that he could no more undo _that _decision than the ones that led up to it—in particular, the decision to lay things out so openly for Brennan that night on the steps of the Hoover, and the subsequent decision not to press her after she rejected his suggestion that they try 'giving this a chance.' He wanted nothing more than to be back home, in Washington, to pull Parker to his chest in a big bear hug, tousle his curly blond hair and breathe in his little boy smell. Booth wasn't sure when he'd get home, but he knew two things for certain: first, that he'd never leave his boy again the way he had, and second, that when he got back to Washington, his life would be shared with Brennan.

As the Skype video call disconnected, Booth stared at the screen for a couple of minutes before closing up Brennan's MacBook. _I gotta do this, _he told himself. _I gotta do this for Parker, and for Bones—and like Bones said, for me. _He glanced over his shoulder as he saw Brennan blow-drying her hair in the bathroom. _I've got the best son and the best woman in the world. They love me, and they want me to be the best man I can be—to come home the guy I was before. I don't know how I'm gonna do that, but I gotta do it. I just gotta. _A wave of fear washed over him as he thought about all the nightmares and flashbacks he'd had—more in the last two weeks than he'd ever had before, even after all he'd dealt with after getting back from Kosovo or, hell, even Iraq, where he'd be captured and tortured by the Republican Guard—and he felt a kernel of doubt inside of him. He looked away from the shiny white laptop as Brennan walked into the bedroom. She wore a soft, closed-mouth smile and her pale gray eyes touched him with a feeling of cool calm. _Bones believes in me, _he told himself. _If she didn't, she wouldn't still be here, with me, right? Bones doesn't suffer fools, she doesn't lie and she doesn't play games. If she thinks I can do it, then I guess I can. _He smiled back as he stood up from the desk. _It's gonna suck, and it's gonna be hard. God knows how long all of this will take. _

He stood in front of the mirror that hung over the dresser and looked at himself. He stared into his own eyes and saw his son's reflecting back at him, big and chocolate brown and full of love. Booth sighed, glancing down at his casted hand before reaching his healthy hand to the St. Christopher's medal that hung from his neck—a replacement for the one that had been lost somewhere between that collapsed building in Marjeh and his hospital room at Bagram.

_Hail, holy Queen, _he prayed silently.

_Oh Mother of mercy, hail, our life, our sweetness and our hope.  
>To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve:<br>to thee do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this vale of tears.  
>Turn then, most gracious Advocate, thine eyes of mercy toward us,<br>and after this our exile, show unto us the blessed fruit of thy womb, Jesus,  
>O merciful, O loving, O sweet Virgin Mary!<em>

He took a deep breath as he blinked at the image in the mirror.  
><em><br>Amen._

He glanced once more to his partner, who stood in front of their little shared closet trying to decide on her wardrobe for the day, and he smiled. He touched his St. Christopher's medal once more, crossed himself, then made his way into the bathroom to shower, reaching out to touch Brennan's shoulder as he passed by.

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><p>"Are you worried?" Brennan asked him as Booth shifted the Land Cruiser into park and reached across to unlatch his seatbelt.<p>

His eyebrows went up and his forehead crinkled at the question. "No," he said. "I mean, yes, a little—you know, it's my writing hand, my shooting hand, my—" He grinned sheepishly as he turned his shoulder to dodge the soft punch she landed against his right bicep. "Okay, I'm a _little _nervous," he admitted, "but a lot less than I would be if I didn't have my secret weapon here with me to be my patient advocate."

"I still think I should have brought a copy of that 2007 article from the _Journal of Orthopedic Trauma," _she muttered as she opened the door and stepped out of the truck.

"Bones," he said. "You're liable to intimidate the crap outta these docs anyway, since you and your photographic memory are going to be able to recite all the findings of that study in exacting detail." He arched an eyebrow and grinned at her as he walked towards the door of the base hospital. "Bringing the actual article would be overkill, you know."

"Perhaps," she shrugged.

"Just remember," Booth said, holding the door open with his right shoulder and foot as he gently ushered her through the entrance with his left hand on the small of her back, a gesture he had grown accustomed to over the preceding weeks, though it didn't feel quite as natural as putting his right hand there. "These docs are docs," he whispered. "Which means they have that same arrogant medical doctor thing going on, but aggravated by the fact that they're all captains and majors, okay?" He peeled his green wool beret off his head and tucked it under his arm as he followed her in.

"I know, Booth," she sighed. "We've already talked about this."

Booth nodded. "I know, Bones, but—" He rubbed his knuckles against her back. "I don't mind you giving them a squinty smackdown if they're going off in the wrong direction, but try to keep the gain down on your mama bear protectiveness."

Brennan shot him a confused look. "My what?"

He laughed. "Just, you know," he whispered. "Keep in mind these guys—even down to the lowest-ranking, twenty-two year-old greenhorn second lieutenant—all outrank me. I've got to observe decorum here, and—you know, Bones—it'll be a huge help if you, well, just keep that in mind." He indicated with a jerk of his chin the direction to take to the orthopedics department. "I've got enough problems with the brass, you know."

She cocked her head at the remark but, recognizing this was neither the time nor the place, let the remark go. "Don't worry, Booth," she assured him. "I'll be firm but respectful."

"Okay," he said with a smile, scratching her middle back with his fingernails as they rounded the corner and encountered a reception desk labeled "Orthopedics."

"Here we go," he murmured.

A half-hour later, they were led into the exam room.

Booth stood in the corner of the exam room surveying the poster on the wall—"The Bones of the Human Body"—with a grin. Brennan sat in the chair nearby and watched him, cataloguing his body language as he stood in front of the poster, tapping his booted foot on the tile floor, drumming the fingers of his left hand on his hip and quietly whistling through his teeth.

"You know, I feel pretty smart, Bones," he said, turning around. "I know the names of a lot of these bones, you know, where they are and what they do—after hanging with you and the other anthropology squints for all these years."

"We've rubbed off on you, apparently," she said. "Figuratively speaking, of course."

Booth chuckled. "Well, in the case of the squints, only in the figurative sense." He waggled his brows suggestively and added in a low voice, "In your case, _heh_—well, perhaps more literally."

The door opened, and a silver-haired major walked in, his eyes meeting Booth's briefly before looking at Brennan.

"Dr. Cho," Booth said, turning around and wiggling the fingers of his left hand nervously. "Sir, this is my friend, Dr. Temperance Brennan." She stood up and shook Dr. Cho's hand as Booth looked on. "She was called in by the Army to assist with the…well…the identification of the casualties of the two Chinooks that went down in Helmand last month." He fell silent as he thought how to gently describe the purpose of her attendance that morning. "Since she's more familiar with medical terms and stuff like CT scans 'cause of what she does for a living, I asked her to come along with me today so I'd better understand what you were telling me. Sir."

Brennan watched as Booth did one thing she had seldom seen him do, even with his FBI superiors—defer so completely to another man in a way she hadn't seen him do since the first dozen or so cases they worked together under the leadership of Deputy Director Cullen—and something she had seen him do hundreds if not thousands of times: dumb himself down, concealing the degree to which he actually understood things. She pursed her lips, wondering why he was doing this, but she said nothing as she sat down again.

Dr. Cho's brow furrowed as Brennan reclaimed her seat. "This is highly irregular, Sergeant Major," he noted. "But—" He looked into Booth's soft brown eyes, which were wide with expectation, his eyebrows raised in a silent plea. "Under the circumstances, though, I'll allow it."

He opened Booth's folder and pulled out a printed image that looked like a strange, black and white cross section of something. Booth squinted at the print-out as Dr. Cho began to speak. "This is one of the images from your CT scan, Sergeant Major," he said. "What you're looking at is a cross-section or slice of your arm." Booth nodded, quickly glancing over to Brennan, who nodded back. "This—" He pointed to a small dark area along the edge of the cross-section. "This is your ulnar nerve, which based upon the symptoms you've described—the tingling and numbness in your pinky, the outer or distal side of your right ring finger and the distal surface of your right palm—is the structure most likely affected." He pointed to a couple of other areas with his pen. "These…here, here and here…are other nerves that run through your arm, that 'feed' the other components of your hand. The good news is that the CT scan shows no sign of abnormality—like a tumor—or injury to any of these nerves, including the ulnar nerve."

Booth took a long breath. "Why am I having the numbness, pain and tingling, then?" he asked. "I mean, if the CT scan came up clean."

Dr. Cho shrugged. "Nerves are very sensitive," he explained. "I would like to run a few more tests before we make a determination, Sergeant Major."

Booth glanced over to Brennan with raised eyebrows.

"What kind of tests?" she asked quietly but firmly. She knew the answer but she wanted to hear the orthopedist identify them and explain them to Booth so her partner would understand and, perhaps, feel just a little bit more in control of what was happening to him.

Dr. Cho pressed his lips in a firm line as he watched the nonverbal interaction between the senior enlisted soldier and the woman who was with him. _Dr. Temperance Brennan, _he thought to himself. _Where have I heard that name before? _He looked down at his feet, trying to jog his memory, then shook away the thought and brought his gaze back to meet Booth's.

"I believe we should run two tests in order to confirm that the ulnar nerve is structurally healthy and intact," he said. Booth's brows went up and his nose scrunched up at the thought of any part of him being anything other than healthy and intact. "One is a nerve conduction study, whereby we will assess the extent to which your ulnar nerve can conduct electricity."

"What?" Booth blurted, turning his head to Brennan. "I don't know what that means. Is that like an electrical continuity test like you'd run on a car's electrical system or something?"

Dr. Cho smiled faintly. "Yes, exactly, Sergeant Major," he said. "You see, your nervous system is basically electrical in nature. When you feel numbness, tingling, burning or shooting pain like the kind you've described, that signals an issue of an electrical nature, which is generally the sign of a nerve dysfunction. Nerves conduct electricity, basically. If the nerves are damaged or somehow aren't able properly conduct those electrical signals, the result is loss of movement, loss of sensation, or excessive sensation like the burning, tingling and sharp pain you're feeling. The test should be able to show us if somewhere along the path from your shoulder down through your arm to your hand there is compression or other dysfunction of the nerve. Sometimes these things don't show up well enough on images like CT scans to diagnose, and because of the hardware in your arm, an MRI is not an option for you."

"Can that test be carried out here?" Brennan asked. "At Bagram?" As she waited for the answer, she was not entirely sure what answer she wanted to hear. A part of her wanted to get Booth as far away from Bagram, the war and the Army as she could, but another part of her—an admittedly selfish part of her—wanted to keep him close until her work there was done and she, too, could return to D.C., hopefully with Booth in tow.

"Yes, of course," Dr. Cho replied.

"Is it going to hurt?" Booth asked.

"No," the doctor answered. "But there is another test I'd also like to perform, an electromyography test—which will involve us placing needles into the muscles of your forearm—in order to record the electrical features of the contraction and relaxation of your muscles. This test can be painful for some patients."

Booth frowned. _This is why I effin hate hospitals and doctors, _he grumbled silently before a voice in the back of his head snapped back, _but this is your best chance at getting that hand of yours back to working condition. Your shooting hand, your throwing hand, your writing hand, your lovemaking hand. _ He glanced over at Brennan and smiled. "Okay," he said. "I'll do it."

"How soon can these tests be run?" Brennan asked.

Dr. Cho smiled, again a bit suspicious about the relationship between the soldier and his scientist friend. They seemed an exceedingly odd pair yet close—in a way he couldn't quite put his finger on, really—but with a roll of his eyes, he shrugged off the thought.

"Well, we would have to remove the cast, and because of the nature and severity of Sergeant Major Booth's fractures, even with the surgically-implanted hardware—" He looked down at Booth's file again. "The cast has been on three weeks so far. I'd normally want to see it on a minimum of four to five weeks. So, to give the bone the best chance to heal most stably, I advise waiting at least another week before removing the cast, perform these tests, and then perhaps we can consider fitting you with a shorter cast, depending on how the X-rays look."

Booth rubbed the back of his head as he stood next to the examination table, his eyes skating across the various CT scan images spread out there like a deck of large, mottled cards. "So, uh," he began, "if the electrical conductivity check thing or the electromyography thing show that there's a problem with the nerve, what are my options from there?"

He fell silent for a moment, wondering whether he would have to learn to play sports all over again—throwing baseballs and footballs to Parker with his left hand, leaning to hold his hockey stick with his left hand, to pass and shoot the puck with his left hand—all of which made him a bit depressed. _What happens to my career with the FBI if I have a half-numb right hand? _After exchanging a worried look with Brennan, turned to the doctor. "After those tests, what can you guys do for me?"

"If the nerve is merely compressed, then you may have essentially a kind of acute carpal tunnel syndrome, which can be addressed surgically by releasing the tissues that are compressing the nerve. This procedure is referred to either as an Ulnar Nerve Release or a Cubital Tunnel Release."

"If not—?" Booth gulped.

Dr. Cho shook his head. "Let's deal with the scenario immediately ahead of us: wait another week before bringing you back in, when we'll remove your cast, perform the NCS and electromyography tests and see whether they indicate a compression."

Brennan stood up. "But what Sergeant Major Booth has been trying to ask is, what happens next if those tests turn up signs of that the nerve compression is the cause of his palsy? What if he requires an Ulnar Nerve Release or a Cubital Tunnel Release to decompress the nerve? Will that surgery be performed here at Bagram? Or will he be sent to another, better-equipped military healthcare facility elsewhere? Surely, there are better facilities than this one—"

Dr. Cho scowled and interrupted her. "Dr. Brennan, the purpose of the facility here at Bagram is provide acute care for personnel transiting to more comprehensive medical facilities, to provide care for minor/less complex injuries, and to provide ongoing preventative care to personnel and contractors based here at Bagram."

Brennan furrowed her eyebrows low over her eyes as she glanced over to Booth, who held his left hand out horizontal to the floor and waggled it up and down just a couple of inches, trying to signal to her to lower the volume of her voice and address the situation in a bit more relaxed way.

"So," Booth interjected, "if I need that surgery, what are talking here: Landstuhl, Fort Sam Houston, or Walter Reed?" He turned to Brennan. "Everything else being equal, I'd like to go to Walter Reed, since it's in D.C., so I can see Parker." He turned back to the doctor. "My son."

Dr. Cho raised his hand to silence any objections or speculations coming from either of them. "Listen, that decision will be made based on schedules, availability, etc. But we've got several tests we need to run yet to determine where along the nerve corridor you are experiencing the problem—compressive or otherwise—and only then will we examine which option is better for you. And before we can do that, we need to give you another week or ten days in that cast. Alright?"

"I just want my hand back," Booth muttered.

"I know you do," Brennan said to him, placing her left hand over his and squeezing it. "I know it." She took a breath. "So, the next step is a follow-up appointment for a week to ten days from now so the electrical conductivity study and electromyography can be completed, correct?"

Dr. Cho nodded. "Yes, and only then, when those results have been read by myself in consultation with a neurologist can we determine the next phase of the Sergeant Major's treatment and where that treatment will occur."

"Okay," Booth said.

"Any further questions?" the doctor asked, praying that there were none before realizing, in that instant, who the woman was. _Oh fuck, _he muttered quietly as he remembered the book he'd bought for his wife for her birthday. He recalled reading the author's profile on the inside flap of the back cover of the book, and all about how she was the Director of Forensic Anthropology at the Medico-Legal Lab at the Jeffersonian Institute in Washington, D.C. and held Ph.D.s in physical anthropology, cultural anthropology and kinesiology. Hearing no further queries, he gathered up the CT images, messily threw them into Booth's patient folder for the private out front to sort through, and began to make his way towards the door with a terse, "We'll see you again in a week for a followup—Private Cassidy will set up the appointment for you." He hesitated, then turned around to meet Brennan's stare. "Pleasure meeting you, Dr. Brennan."

She narrowed her eyes slightly and said, "Likewise, Dr. Cho."

* * *

><p>"Where are we going, Booth?" Brennan asked. "I thought you were taking me to the hangar."<p>

Booth turned to her with a twinkle in his eye and an irrepressible smirk on his lips. "I left my workout bag in the room," he said.

She looked at him suspiciously but shrugged. "Alright," she whispered. Her mind was preoccupied thinking about the course of treatment for what she was certain was ulnar nerve palsy caused by a compression of the nerve somewhere near the site of Booth's ulnar fracture. She knew the orthopedist was right, and that Booth needed a little more time to allow the healing fractures to stabilize before removing the cast and commencing the process of treating the more worrisome nerve condition.

A few minutes later, Booth pulled into a space behind Brennan's building and slammed the gearshift into park. He looked at her, his cheeks flushing warmly as his eyes traced over the features of her face—her cheekbones, her square jaw, her delicate brow—before he unlatched his seatbelt and climbed out of the truck.

He followed her into the building, politely nodding to one of the other residents who shot him a knowing grin—he wasn't entirely sure what exactly Brennan had said or done to secure the continued silence of her neighbors, but he definitely wasn't complaining, in any case—as they walked down the hall to her room. He stood close behind her as she put the key in the lock, his head hovering over her shoulder as her hair tickled his nose. She struggled a little with the key before finally turning the lock and opening the door. With a gentle push, he urged her through the doorway before closing the door behind him with his boot.

Brennan's eyes scanned the room—the neatly-made bed (the reasons for which still amused her, though she had ceased teasing her partner about his modesty), the half-turned blinds through which bright stripes of morning light shone through, and his Army-issue laptop with the broadband card she'd gotten for him—and turned around to face him.

"So where's your gym bag?" she asked, glancing at her watch. Booth smiled and took a couple of steps towards her, closing the distance between them as he raised his hand to cup her cheek. He smiled at her but said nothing. "Booth, we can't," she protested. "Mr. Bray—"

He shook his head and grinned. "Wendell can wait," he said quietly, tilting his head to the side as he looked deeply into her eyes. "There's something I need to tell you, Bones."

Brennan's eyes narrowed and her face paled as her heart began to race. _What is it now, Booth? _she wondered. _I feel like I've been from heaven to hell and back again—metaphorically speaking—just in the last five days. _She felt his large hand warm against her cheek and she watched his eyes.

"What?" she whispered, tentatively reaching out and placing her hands on his narrow hips.

He let his hand fall from her cheek and grasped her right hand in his. "I had a revelation, Bones," he said. "Last night—and this morning."

"A revelation?" She arched her eyebrow.

"Yeah, Bones," Booth replied. "Last night, after we finished talking to Gordon Gordon, and we went to bed…" He squeezed her hand. "I had trouble sleeping, so I just lay there, watching you sleep."

He remembered laying on his side next to her, his casted arm resting on his hip as he observed her. Even though in the darkness of the Afghan night, everything seemed colored in shades of gray, her face seemed to glow in the faint light like porcelain, her features soft and relaxed as her mouth hung open ever so slightly, a barely-audible snore passing from her lips. He thought about the strange journey they had each traveled to get where they were at that moment, and how finally, after all of the tension, the frustration, confusion and pain that they had caused themselves and each other in the nearly six years since they had first met, they were together, under circumstances neither one could have imagined they would find themselves individually, never mind together.

In the two-odd weeks since she had arrived in Afghanistan, everything had changed between them, and now the hope and expectation that had coursed through his veins that night on the steps of the Hoover seemed finally fulfilled as he watched her sleeping peacefully next to him. He loved her, so deeply that he imagined that he wore his love for her like a second skin that enveloped him completely. Even more incredible was the fact that she loved him—she had told him so, and moreover had showed her love for him again and again with the care, concern and compassion she had showed to him as he struggled through the memories that had plagued him since the days following the crash of the two Chinooks.

"I realized, watching you last night, the way you looked so beautiful and peaceful next to me, and talking to Parker this morning—it occurred to me that I have everything I've ever really wanted in life, right now." He rolled his lips between his teeth and closed his hand around her smaller, slender-fingered fist, bringing her hand up to his lips, kissing it softly. "I have the love of a wonderful woman, and an incredible son, and—" His brown eyes glistened as he leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers. "I don't want to lose you, Bones. I don't want to squander this incredible gift we've been given. I want to get back to being the man I was—the man you deserve, and the father Parker deserves." He swallowed as he felt the tears welling up in his eyes.

"I'm gonna do this, Bones," he whispered. "I'm gonna get my head together, get my arm healthy, get the hell out of the Army, and go home—and get back to the life I had before." A smile broke across his lips. "Except, this time, it'll be better, Bones, because you and me, we'll be together, really together."

Brennan opened her mouth to speak, but the hardness in her throat caused her to hesitate. "I want all those things, too, Booth," she said, placing her hand over his and stroking her thumb over the web of bumpy veins on the top of his hand. "I…I don't know exactly how long all this is going to take to finish my work here—two weeks, maybe three weeks—and I don't know how long it's going to take to convince the Army that they need to send you back to the States to get your arm properly treated, but—"

"You'll convince 'em, Bones," he said. "I know it."

He saw the way her eyebrows flashed skeptically and thought back to what she had said to him when he was in the hospital being prepped for brain surgery. _"I'm not a neurologist, Booth," she had told him. "But you're a genius," he'd replied. "That's good enough for me." _

"I'm not sure about that," she said. "I am fairly certain that the tests they're going to run next week are going to show that you have impaired ulnar nerve function as the result of a significant compression of the nerve. I'm also fairly certain that you'll need to have surgery to correct the problem, and that they'll need to send you home to get it done."

"If I can get out of Afghanistan, maybe I can find someone who can help with..." Booth's voice trailed off as he pulled away from her slightly and took a breath. "You know—with all this stuff that's messing up my head."

Brennan looked at him for several long moments, her pale eyes gazing into his darker ones as she struggled to contain the disparate emotions she felt swirling inside of her. "We are going to get you home, Booth," she said to him earnestly, her voice even yet full of gravity. "And," she added with a heavy-lidded blink, "when you go home, I'm going with you."

Booth felt his heart stop as her words sank into his consciousness. "Bones," he whispered, leaning into her again as he let go of her hand, snaked his arm around her waist and kissed her.

Brennan felt his tongue skate across the line between her lips and she opened her mouth to him. She moaned as his tongue glanced off of hers and they kissed deeply, their mouths grasping at one another as their breaths began to rise and fall harder with every passing second. He cupped his healthy hand around her jaw and pulled her even more deeply into his kiss.

As their mouths fell away from one another, each of them gasping for breath, she whispered, "Booth—the hangar…I need to get back…"

"No, no, no," he mumbled, pulling her face to his for another, briefer kiss. "Wendell can wait…and my guys can wait." Kissing her again, he grinned and said, "My guys'll understand if we're a few minutes late getting back to them. They'd totally understand." He kissed her again, then moved his face away as her mouth chased his. "In fact, I'm fairly certain they'd approve."

"Hmmm…"

Booth reached for Brennan's blouse and began to unbutton the top button with his left hand, struggling to roll the button through the slit with this thumb and forefinger as she brushed his hand away. She stepped back and quickly unbuttoned her blouse as she watched him unzip his camouflage jacket, shrugging out of it one arm at a time and letting the garment fall to the floor. She stripped herself of her blouse, toed off her flats and removed her trousers, then sat down on the bed as she watched him bend over and furiously unlace his boots. Stepping out of his boots with a grunt and sliding out of his socks, he swiftly unbelted his trousers and began to unbutton his fly as she watched him with hungry interest.

"Come here," she whispered. He looked up, his brow briefly crinkled in confusion before the realization dawned on him. "I want to do that," she said with a lusty half-grin. Booth reached down and quickly peeled off his T-shirt before walking barefoot to stand in front of her at the side of the bed.

Brennan smiled as the muscles of his abdomen tightened reflexively in response to her touch as she carefully unbuttoned each of the four buttons of his fly. He sucked in a breath as she pulled the fly open and, sliding her hands along the edge of his pelvis underneath the waistband of his briefs, shoved both his trousers and his underwear off his hips in a single motion. Wincing as the waistband of his briefs brushed over his arousal, he reached down with both hands—even his casted hand—to help her slide his trousers down his thighs and over his knees as he stepped out of them.

"Oh God, Bones," Booth groaned as he leaned over, transfixed by the way her pale eyes glittered as she took his swollen tip between her lips. "Oh, fuck…"

She pressed the point of her tongue into the slit, tasting the sweet drops of his fluid there, then, wrapping her fingers around his bony hips, took as much of him into her mouth as she could. Her head bobbed to and fro as she sucked him, dragging the flat of her tongue along the underside of him as she felt the gluteal muscles of his hips tense beneath her fingers, and she knew he was trying desperately to resist the impulse to thrust into her mouth.

"Oh…fuck…"

Brennan took him as deeply into her mouth as she could, wiggling the point of her tongue against the base before pulling back and letting him fall, wet and hard, away from her lips.

Narrowing his coal-dark eyes, Booth bent over and reached for the waistband of her panties. Sliding his hand underneath the elastic, he brushed his fingertips over her damp curls before tugging the unremarkable cotton article over her rounded hips and down her thighs.

"Aren't you going to take off my bra?" she asked in a husky voice as she wiggled the panties off her legs and kicked them to the floor with a laugh.

Licking his lips as her legs fell apart loosely, Booth grinned and shook his head. "No," he grunted as he rubbed the knuckles of his left hand over the neat curls that covered her cleft. "We're gonna skip that part this time, baby." Her laughing response was cut short when she gasped at feeling his forefingers parting her folds, sliding his middle finger over her slippery opening, gathering a bit of her sweet cream and smoothing it over her clit before he began to rub tight, insistent circles with his thumb.

"Oh, fuck, Booth," she moaned, her back arching off the bed as each circle propelled her deeper into a spiral of sensation. "Fuck…"

Booth watched her facial expressions shift as he continued to pleasure her with his thumb. Her eyes clenched shut, smoothing her forehead as her mouth gaped open, the most delicious low moan passing from her thin lips as he slid his middle finger into her creamy, warm depths. "You're so beautiful," he said in a low voice as he started to pump his long, thick finger into her, all the while continuing to work her swollen clit with his thumb. "Come on, baby," he whispered as he felt her back arch once more off the bed and a loud, long grunt issue from her as she tightened around his finger.

"Ohhhh….fuck….ohhhh…"

He would normally give her a chance to ride out the ebbing waves of her release, but that morning, as the midmorning sun filtered through the blinds and left their stencil-like stripes across the sun-splashed half of the room, he tucked his chin against his chest, pulled her hips to the edge of the bed and, with a deep breath, pressed himself into her.

"Oh God," he moaned as he pulled nearly all the way out again, looking down admiringly on the incredible body spread before him.

He drove into her with a primitive force that surprised him in the fleeting moments before his higher mental functions were completely inundated with a flood of sensations: the smooth, slippery feel of her folds as they opened up for him; the way she smelled of sweat, floral body spray and her own musky arousal; low moans and long, soft sighs that she uttered as he moved in and out of her, slowly at first but more quickly as the threads of his self-control all but unraveled; and the rosy pinkness that flushed her sweat-glistened face, neck and chest as his movements worked her towards her second peak. He held onto her with his healthy hand, the pads of his fingertips pressing into the round swell of her hip as he stroked into her, each entry harder and more insistent than the one before as he rolled his hips back and tried to bury himself as deeply inside of her as he could. As he moved inside of her, burying himself inside of her wet warmth, grinning as she moaned and arched her back under him, he vaguely wondered if he would ever find his way out of her again, and that thought, ephemeral as it was, sent him over the edge. Drawing his hips back one last time, he drove up and deeply into her, holding himself there as he let go, pulsing into her as their darkened eyes met in a long, open stare.

* * *

><p>Booth pulled his lips away from hers reluctantly as she unclasped her seatbelt and opened the truck door.<p>

"Pick you up at five?" he said to her, his hair still a little damp from the shower they shared after their love. "Oh—don't forget your sandwiches!" He reached into the back seat and retrieved the white paper bag, then leaned over the console as she snatched the bag from his hands with a wry grin.

"Thanks," Brennan said. Her smile faded somewhat and she cocked her head. "You're gonna call him, right? You promised."

Booth took a deep breath. "Yeah," he said. "I will. As soon as I get back to—" They weren't sure what to call it: _her _room? _their _room? "He's a U.S. Magistrate Judge. It's not like he's not used to getting calls in the middle of the night. You'll text me if…"

She nodded. "Yes, I'll text you before the end of the day to let you know if we made any IDs."

"Okay," he sighed.

She was about to close the door then hesitated. "You'll call me if you need me?" she asked. "Anything, Booth—if you feel like it's all too much, you'll call me?"

"Yeah," he said, chewing the inside of his lip. "I'll be okay, Bones," he added bravely.

"I know you will," she replied with a smile, then closed the door to the Land Cruiser with a loud clunk.

* * *

><p>Booth paced back and forth across the floor, his boots scrunching against the short pile commercial-grade carpet as he listened to the phone ring on the other end of the line.<p>

"Hello?" a low, sleepy voice answered.

"Hank? It's Booth."

For a couple of beats, the line was silent but for the crackle of white noise. "Where are you?" Hank Luttrell asked, his sleep-thickened voice suddenly a half-octave higher. "Are you okay?"

Booth swallowed. "I know it's late, man," he said. "But—can we talk?"

Another moment of silence passed. "Sure," Luttrell replied, his voice a whisper as he tried to avoid waking his sleeping wife, Jenny. "Just—let me…are you okay, Booth?"

A long sigh was his only reply.

"Okay," Luttrell said as Booth heard the sound of an unlatching door in the background. "What's up?"

"God," Booth said. "Where do I even start?"

* * *

><p><strong>AN****: **_Enter Hank Luttrell stage right. Alright, so t__hings are starting to fall into place a little, if you noticed._

_What do you think? Tell me. Please. Please, **please, PLEASE**—don't read and run._

_Tell me what you think about what happened in this chapter. I pour my heart and soul into each of these chapters—especially one like this—and I'm desperate to know what you think._

_So please, tell me what you think..._

_I'm dying here, folks O.o_


	26. Reaching Out

**Killing Two Birds**

* * *

><p><strong>By:<strong> dharmamonkey  
><strong>Rated:<strong> M  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> _Hart Hanson owns _Bones_. But people like me who play in his sandbox give you all those delicious little moments that Hart and friends leave out. In this case, AU do-overs for that gap between Seasons 5 and 6 that wrought so much havoc for our heroes. That's why you read fanfic._

* * *

><p><strong><span>AN:**

1) **Acronyms/terminology**: _A reviewer noted that I'm using some terminology the meaning of which may not be immediately evident. Here are some you'll want to take note of because they show up in this chapter:_

**SF: **_US Army Special Forces  
><em>**SFG: **_Special Forces Group—US Army Special Forces is divided into five active duty (AD) and two Army National Guard (ARNG) Special Forces groups. Each Special Forces Group (SFG) has a specific regional focus. The 3rd SFG (in which Booth is serving) is theoretically oriented towards all of Sub-Saharan Africa with the exception of the Eastern Horn of Africa, i.e. AFRICOM. In practice, 3rd SFG and two of its battalions spend roughly six months out of every twelve deployed to Afghanistan as Combined Joint Special Operations Task Force – Afghanistan.  
><em>**SOAR: **_Special Operations Aviation Regiment—the 160th SOAR is a unit that provides helicopter-based (airmobile/air assault) capabilities to US Army Special Forces.  
><em>**Adhān: **_The Muslim call to prayer, made by a muezzin from the mosque.  
><em>**Amidah**: _Also called the Shmoneh Esreh (_שמנה עשרה_, "The Eighteen," in reference to the original number of constituent blessings), is the central prayer of the Jewish liturgy and is often sung by a cantor after the congregation finishes reciting it.  
><em>**Benning: **_Ft. Benning, in western Georgia, is home to most elements of the 75th Ranger Regiment, the Ranger unit Booth served in.  
><em>**KFOR: **_A NATO-led international peacekeeping force responsible for establishing a secure environment in Kosovo.  
><em>**CO: **_Commanding Officer_.

2) **Shout-out to über-helpful writing friend****: **_The incomparable _**Diko** _deserves a shout-out for some research she shared with me on medical details and another subject matter that will emerge in an upcoming chapter. (If you haven't read her amazing, really terrific piece __**Murder in Maluku**__, you're really missing out. It's another post-season 5 finale, pre-6x1 piece, but in hers, a certain Sergeant Major is sent to Maluku to help out a certain anthropologist. A really good piece I recommend you read immediately, if not sooner.) Thanks for sharing the fruits of your labors, pal!_

_So, anyways—alright, without further ado, let's go back to Bagram._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 26: Reaching Out<strong>

* * *

><p>"Um, gimme a sec to get down to the office, okay?"<p>

The line went quiet, and Booth found himself listening to static for about half a minute as he visualized his friend wheeling himself down the hall to his study, his cell phone sitting in his lap, balanced between thin legs atrophied by years of paralysis. Booth closed his eyes and took a long, slow breath as he mentally swatted away the tendrils of guilt that tickled at the edges of his consciousness.

Hank Luttrell cleared his throat. "Booth, where are you?" he asked.

"Bagram," Booth answered, plopping himself into the desk chair and leaning his head back with a sigh.

"Bagram? Last time I heard from you, man, you were in Helmand," Hank said, the lilt of his voice evidencing his confusion. "What's going on?"

"You know that chopper crash last month that took down two helos and killed twenty-one guys in Marjeh?"

There was a pause, then Hank said, "Yeah…fuck, don't tell me…"

Booth swallowed and shook his head, then took a deep breath. "That was my unit," he said grimly. "You know I was in an SF detachment, right? 3rd SFG? Those two helos that went down had the other eleven guys in my detachment—nine enlisted, two officers—plus the ten aircrew from the 160th SOAR."

"Fuck," Hank muttered. "Were you—?"

Booth felt his chest tighten and a little faint. "I was on the ground, dropped in ahead of time to man an overwatch position, surveiling the target while the other eleven came in on those two birds to spring the trap."

"Holy shit."

"One of the birds crash-landed on the building I was in," Booth continued, his voice even and empty of passion. "The entire backside of the structure collapsed on top of me."

Several seconds of static-filled silence hung on the line before Booth heard Hank whisper, "God damn, man. Are you okay?"

Booth grunted a curt laugh. "I broke my arm in two places—pretty nasty, bones sticking out of my skin and shit—and now it's held together with plates and screws. I've got a cast up to my damn armpit." He shook his right arm, trying to chase away a tingle that shot down his arm and across the outside of his palm. "I dislocated my shoulder, got a pretty nasty concussion, busted my eyebrow and had to get ten stitches to close up a gash in the side of my head. I was a fucking mess."

_I'm still kind of a mess, _he thought grimly. _But I'm workin' on it._

"You okay now, though?" Hank asked, his voice even though he knew—and Booth knew he knew—that his old Army buddy wouldn't have called if everything was copacetic.

"My arm's still in a cast," Booth said. "For at least another week or so, but then I've gotta get a bunch of tests run because I've got this numbness and tingling in a couple of my fingers that won't go away. It gets pretty painful sometimes. They say I may have a compressed nerve as a result of one of the broken bones."

"Right arm?"

"Of course, wouldn't you know?" Booth replied, his voice edged with sarcasm. "Murphy's Law, right?" He pressed the speaker button on his smartphone and set it on the desk.

"That sucks," Hank replied. "But there's something else, isn't there?"

Booth reached up and rubbed his fingers over the top of his head. "Yeah," he sighed.

The line went silent again, and stayed silent, the space filled only with quiet static, for several seconds before Booth spoke again.

"I'm fucked up, Hank," he said. "Memories, flashbacks, sleepless nights and all that shit. Feeling angry, nervous, depressed. All of it. Worse than it's ever been before—even worse than it was when I woke up at Landstuhl after being MEDEVAC'd from Iraq, you know..."

"_We're getting' you outta here, Sergeant," the medic said to him. Booth lay in a fetal position on the concrete floor, squinting as he held his hand over his eyes, blinded by the light that was now streaming into the small cell that had been his home for the prior seven days. The Republican Guard captain who had taken personal charge of Booth's interrogations had called him a troublemaker, a bastard. For six days and six nights they had tried to get him to divulge the details of the Coalition's strategy and operational capabilities, but he had refused, giving them only his name, rank, service number and a hard stare. _

_"You're gonna be alright," the medic whispered as he knelt next to Booth, who opened his mouth to speak to the American soldier he could hear but not see. He felt a dark, heavy curtain of hopelessness descend on him as his tongue and throat were so dry from lack of water, he found himself unable to do anything except move his chapped lips to mouth the words he wanted to say. _

"_Can you stand up?" the medic asked, reading the crestfallen expression in Booth's eyes as a no. "Alright, we'll help you. Don't you worry, man." _

_Booth's broken feet throbbed, a dull ache that swelled into breath-sucking pain with each beat of his pulse. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw the triangular, yellow, red and blue patch on the medic's arm, and in that moment, recognizing the insignia of the First Armored Division, he knew he was going home._

"Talk to me, Booth," Hank said. "What's going on?"

"I don't really know," Booth admitted. "It started out—I don't know…"

"Come on, man…"

Booth took a long, deep breath. "So, alright—I guess I should start at the beginning, huh?"

"That might help," Hank said, a vague fringe of humor in his voice. "Go on…"

"Okay, so I wake up in the hospital, right? I know from the news on the TV in my room that it's the day after the mission. I'm in a cast, my head hurts like hell, I got an IV in my arm and one of those blood-oxygen clothespin doodahs on my finger, and I'm hooked up to a heart monitor. I have no fuckin' idea how I got there, right? It's all blank. A few minutes go by and a nurse comes in…"

"_Hello, Sergeant Major," the young woman in scrubs said as she approached Booth's bed. "How are you feeling?"_

_Booth winced and groaned as he opened his mouth to reply. "I feel like crap," he said hoarsely. He saw the nurse wore a name badge on the pocket of the turquoise scrubs she wore over her sand-colored ACU T-shirt. "Lieutenant Douglas, can I have something to drink?" Booth swallowed, then gave her his best wide-eyed, puppy-dog look. "Please?"_

_She glanced down at his chart and then back to Booth with a grin. "You're a charmer, aren't you, Sergeant Major?" she said with a laugh, closing his chart. "One of those wink-and-a-smile types that thinks he can open any door with a charming twinkle in his eye. Yeah, you're going to be a troublemaker—I can tell." She arched a good-humored eyebrow and said, "How 'bout we start you out with some ice chips and see how you do, then we'll go from there?"_

_Booth pouted his lips. "Alright," he said. The nurse disappeared, reappearing a couple of minutes later with a cup of ice chips. _

"_Here you go," she said. "If you do alright with this, we can see about letting you drink some water. Your chart indicates you have had some issues with general anesthesia in the past, so we want to take it easy." _

_Booth gave her an uneasy smile as he accepted the plastic cup of ice from her. "Where am I?" he asked, bringing the cup to his mouth and letting the ice melt on his tongue._

"_You're at the hospital at Bagram Air Field," she replied. _

"_What's in the IV?" he asked. The nurse raised an eyebrow._

"_An antibiotic," she replied. "You suffered a compound fracture of your arm there, and because the wounds to your arm communicated with the fractured surface of your bone, you're at higher risk of infection." She watched the way his brown eyes blinked and flickered as he considered her words. "And Fetanyl, a narcotic, for pain."_

_Booth's brow crinkled as a confused look came over his face. "How did I break my arm?" he asked._

_Douglas pursed her lips then took a breath. "You don't remember what happened to you?" _

"_No," he admitted. "Though from what you said about my arm and the way my head hurts right now, I'm guessing it wasn't good." He held the plastic cup in his hand casually, crunching the ice between his teeth as he looked at her expectantly._

_Douglas stared at him for several long moments, bit the inside of her lip, then said quietly, "Someone will be in to talk to you shortly, Sergeant Major." _

_Booth looked up at the TV in the corner of his room, which was tuned to CNN, and he saw the ticker run along the bottom announcing an Army helicopter crash in Helmand Province that killed 21 U.S. Special Forces soldiers. He grimaced, then glanced over at the nurse._

"_Any chance there's some hockey or baseball for me to watch?" he asked, a smile spreading across his lips as he jerked his chin towards the TV set. Douglas chuckled at him. _

"_Sure," she smiled, reaching over for the remote and, clicking through a few channels, settled on a rebroadcast of a game between the Blackhawks and the Red Wings. _

"That's when you found out?" Hank asked. "When the officers came in?"

"Yeah," Booth said. "When they told me two helos went down and that I was on the ground in a building that collapsed when one of the helos crashed into it, I was like, okay. The first few hours, I didn't remember anything. I remembered, you know, that I was back in the Army, on deployment in Afghanistan, and that I was with the Green Berets, but it took a little while for things to kind of filter through, if that makes any sense. But even then, you know, once I kind of had my bearings and was able to remember the unit I was in, and the guys I was in the detachment with, I still didn't remember what had happened the day before the crash, or even what had happened in the few weeks leading up to it."

"Oh…whoa," Hank whispered.

"Yeah, huh? Bones says I have—well, or had—retrograde amnesia, which is why things that happened closest to the time of the crash…you know, in the hours or days leading up to it…were the things I had the hardest time remembering. Still not real clear on all the details, actually."

"Bones? You mean your partner, Dr. Brennan, the anthropologist?"

Booth looked at the phone on the desk and smiled. "Oh, uh—yeah." He grinned into the phone but wasn't sure whether he had heard a knowing twitter in his friend's voice or whether he was imagining it. "When they told me about the two helos going down, you know, that they'd burned up and they were going to need some time to officially confirm the casualties and everything, I told 'em they needed to track down Bones in Indonesia, that she'd be able to help them identify all the guys so…" His voice trailed off and he swallowed, trying to shake away the burn he felt in his nose thinking about his comrades. "I couldn't remember where I'd been when those choppers went down, or what I'd been doing, or even what was going on with the baseball playoffs, you know, but the strange thing is, I remembered that I was with the FBI, and all about Bones being in Maluku and—it's just weird how the mind works, I guess."

"Okay," Hank said, the hesitation in his voice betraying his confusion. "So Dr. Brennan went to Afghanistan?"

"Yeah, she's here," Booth said. "She's actually on the other side of the base right now, in an aircraft hangar with one of her graduate student interns, and they're working on identifying all the …" He sighed again. "You know, the remains, so they can send my guys, and the guys from the aircrew, home. They've already sent five of 'em home already." He paused, a lump forming in his throat as he thought about the guys he'd already said goodbye to, and how he wished he could have done more to see them off. "Hopefully another couple each day until they, well…are able to send them all of 'em home."

"Wow," Hank said. "Okay, so—"

"Yeah, so a couple of days later, Bones finally gets to Bagram, right? And I get assigned by 3rd SFG to be like a liason for her—ironic, I guess, huh? Anyways, at that point, I still wasn't really able to remember much about much of anything, and what I knew about the situation was mostly what I'd been told by the brass when I got debriefed at the hospital."

"When did you start to get your memory back?"

Booth scratched his head. "Almost immediately, I guess," he said, thinking back to all that had happened in the previous weeks and how, in a sense, it seemed like a lifetime ago that he was in Helmand, enjoying the finest views of the countryside behind the precision-ground lens of a rifle scope, missing the hell out of Brennan, who was hiding away incommunicado in Maluku.

"But it comes in dribs and drabs, you know. The memories come back randomly sometimes, or triggered by something I see, or hear, or smell." He shuddered and rolled his shoulders uncomfortably at the first days he spent after Brennan's arrival, sifting through the vinyl bags of debris and remains, separating the shattered remnants of the Chinooks and the mud-brick teahouse from the shattered remnants of his men, his officers and the ill-fated flight crews.

"Nightmares?" Hank asked quietly.

"Yeah," Booth whispered. "Yeah—at first, it was hard to tell whether I was remembering what I dreamed or dreaming what I remembered, since I'd have these dreams about being in the back of this room, in a building in Marjeh or some other poor-ass town in Helmand, watching this suspected insurgent leader through my scope, and then all of a sudden hearing…"

His voice trailed off as heart begin to race, a dull hum in his ears growing louder as he tried to shake away the lightheaded feeling that washed over him.

_He sat cross-legged in the back of the room with his left arm firmly braced on top of his left knee and clasping his right forearm for stability. The afternoon sun blazed through the window and cast a sharp-edged shadow on the floor. It was a pleasant fall day, and Booth could hear the_ adhān, _the muezzin's call to prayer, ring out from the mosque a few blocks away: _

_Ash-hadu al-la ilaha illa llah  
>Ash-hadu anna Muħammadu Rasulullah<br>Hayya 'ala s-salah…_

_A smile crossed his lips as he thought how—despite all of the misery and violence he'd seen wrought in the name of Islam over the last few years—the sound of the Muslim call to prayer really was a beautiful thing. It reminded him of the Latin Mass, and even more so of the time he once went to Friday night services with his Little League friend Matt Goldstein when he was seven, and how he was amazed at the way the cantor sang the _Amidah_ and how the sound of the prayer, even though its Hebrew words meant nothing to him, filled him with a palpable sense of the divine._

_As the muezzin's voice echoed pleasantly through the streets and alleys between the mud-brick buildings on that end of Marjeh, Booth sat patiently, cloaked in the shadow fifteen feet away from the window that formed his aperture, untouched by the dangers posed by the sun's reflection on the flawless glass lens of his scope. He held his M25 sniper rifle, resting it over the crook of his left elbow as he gazed through the scope at the three Pashtun men seated on rickety chairs in the café, sipping steaming glasses of lightly-steeped black tea. _

_He felt his heart rate begin to creep up as he waited for the first helicopter to respond to his call. As the muezzin's voice trailed off, Booth felt his eye twitch. He felt a dark swirl in his gut as he heard a strange sequence of sounds amid the faint and ever-louder sound of the approaching helicopter rotors. He heard a soft plunk that he swore came from the area behind the café, followed by a sharply zipping swoosh that seemed to pass right over his head. A couple of seconds later, he was shaken by the sound of a loud explosion behind him and to his left._

_"Forester Two, please acknowledge, over," he said into his headset, trying to maintain his calm and a steady breath as he continued to watch the scene in the café across the street._

_His call was met only by silence._

_"Forester Two, please acknowledge, over!"_

_A voice crackled over the radio. "Mayday, mayday, mayday! This is Forester Two. Mayday, may—"_

_Then the voice fell silent, his transmission interrupted mid-word by a loud rush of white noise. A fraction of a second later, Booth heard a deafening crash across the street and a sharp, ear-splitting crack behind him. Then everything went black as the pilot's last words echoed in his ears._

"Booth?" Hank's voice called out over the phone. "You still there, Booth?"

Booth looked back at the phone, blinking away the dots that floated in front of his eyes from staring into the sunlight out the window. "Sorry," he muttered, standing up and grabbing the phone off the desk, turning off the speaker as he brought the handset to his ear. He stepped in front of the mirror and looked at himself, holding the phone between his ear and shoulder as he reached into his shirt and pulled his St. Christopher medal out from under his T-shirt, frowning as his dog tags came with it, the two necklaces having become tangled under his shirt.

"I did something really bad, Hank," he said, rubbing his brow with the thumb of his casted arm. "Really bad, man." He felt his heart pounding in his chest and a burning in his sinuses as he waited for his friend to say something.

A couple of seconds went by in silence before Hank spoke. "What'd you do?" he asked simply.

"I hit her," Booth mumbled quickly. "I fucking hit her."

Another span of silence hung between them, but only for a couple of beats. "Who did you hit, Booth?"

"Bones," he whispered. "I hit her. I…I don't know why I did it, or…you know, what I was thinking, but…I fucking hit her, man." His words came in choked sobs as he gritted his teeth, trying to hold himself together despite feeling at that moment that all the strength he'd shored up over the last day was now somehow falling away.

"What happened?" Hank asked. Booth's mouth hung open in surprise as he waited to hear his old friend chastise him.

He took a long, deep breath that wavered and hitched as he tried to smooth away the sobs that had crept into his throat. "I've been doing these letters, right? You know, to the families of my guys—the guys in my detachment. And there was this one kid, Swann. Good kid, you know. I really liked him a lot. His letter—the one I wrote to his mom and dad—that was the first letter I wrote. Then I wrote one to his girlfriend. He was all teed up and ready to propose to her as soon as he got back home from our deployment—he had the ring and everything. And…"

"And?"

Booth rolled his jaw from side to side as he leaned against the dresser and looked at the bed, which was still made, sort of, except that the comforter was a bit bunched up and rumpled from their late-morning encounter. The sight of the bed, with its evidence of the love that had been recently made there, offered him encouragement as a warm feeling surged through his chest.

He took another deep breath and continued. "The other day, I came into the hangar after a follow-up appointment with my doctor, and I overheard Bones and Wendell talking about how they'd just confirmed that one of the bodies was Swann, and I kind of fell apart."

"Was he the first?" Hank asked. "I mean, the first of the guys ID'd?"

Booth hesitated. "He was the first of my guys," he said. "A couple of the aircrew got ID'd first, but I didn't hardly know them."

"Okay," Hank said, hanging onto the last syllable as he tried to nudge his friend to continue.

"So, I went over to pay my respects, you know, and then I got the idea to read to him the letter I'd written to his girlfriend, and I lost it."

"Is that when you hit her?" Hank asked quietly.

_"No!" his voice rumbled in his throat._

_The single word was spoken as no more than a graveled epithet that Brennan struggled to hear. Leaning in closer to him, both needing and wanting to be close enough to hear him and help him, Brennan reached out for him._

_"Booth?"_

_His head snapped up at the same time he swung his casted arm out in reflexive anger. "No!" he cried as he drew his arm back to his side, blinking in confusion as he felt a sharp tingle as if his hand had made contact with something solid. His mind sputtered as he saw Brennan bring her hand to her nose._

Booth covered his eyes with his hand and squeezed his temples between his thumb and fingers, shaking his head as he tried to reconcile the layers of memories that seemed to be washing ashore in loud, crashing waves on the edges of his mind. "I flashed back," he said. "To one of the missions I'd had in Iraq. One minute, I was reading that letter to Swann, and I was bawling my eyes out, then I got flooded by this memory, and then Bones, she came up to me, tried to put her arms around me to comfort me like she'd done a lot of times the last few weeks, and…"

His voice trailed off as the burning in his nostrils peaked, and the tears that had been welling up in his eyes spilled onto his cheekbones.

"What happened, Booth?"

"I hauled off and hit her," he said quickly. "With my right hand—the one with the hard as fuck cast on it. I don't even know why. It…at the time, I didn't even realize I'd done it until I…" He sniffed, wiping his nose with the soft bandage material that covered the knuckles of his right hand. "Her nose was bleeding all over the place," he said in a broken voice. "Blood everywhere. All over her mouth and nose, down the front of her shirt. I think I damn near broke her nose."

Booth coughed and waited for a reply, unnerved by the several seconds of silence that followed his confession.

"I hit Jenny a couple of times," Hank said in a quiet, low voice.

Booth's breath caught in his throat. "Really?" he whispered.

"After I got out of Walter Reed," Hank began. "I had just finished a couple of months of intensive inpatient physical therapy, just to learn how to do everything again without legs—piss, dress myself, get in and out of bed, get in and out of the chair, you know. All of it. I hated it. I hated the way I was, stuck in that chair. I was angry all the time. All the damn time, Booth."

"I…I had no idea," Booth said. "I was still at Benning, after they'd sent us home from Kosovo once they got KFOR all settled in."

"Oh yeah," Hank said. "I was _fucked up,_ Booth. Big time. You know how I was before—you know, before I got shot over there."

Booth laughed. "You were a cocky motherfucker," he said. "All piss and vinegar, with a swagger and that come-hither smile you'd give the girls in the bars near Benning. You made me look like the very picture of humility."

"I was an asshole, Booth," Hank said. "I was a dick, before I got shot. Had I not got hit over there, I probably would've ended up divorced before the end of that year. Jenny had pretty much had enough of my shit, and I don't blame her, really."

"Wow," Booth said.

"In the first couple of months after I got back," Hank continued, "I was a monster, basically."

"You hit Jenny?" Booth asked, still unable to believe it.

Hank and Jenny Luttrell took him in when he bottomed out with his gambling addiction in 2003, blowing three consecutive paychecks in Atlantic City before being evicted from his apartment for failure to pay his rent on time. Homeless, utterly broke, unable to rent a new apartment because his credit was in shambles, he'd turned to his old friend and his wife, who graciously opened their home to him and let him live there, for a nominal amount of rent, while he got help for his gambling addiction and rebuilt his finances. In the five months he'd lived with them and their children, Booth had come to regard Jenny as the older sister he'd never had. The thought of his friend Hank being so off-kilter that he'd smack his wife was beyond Booth's comprehension—

Except that it wasn't. Whatever it was that made him hit his partner, and whether or not he was in his right mind when he'd done it, there was no question in his mind that he had, in fact, done it. He cradled the handset between his ear and shoulder as he reached up again and fingered his St. Christopher medal, bringing it to his lips and kissing it before tucking it, and his dog tags, under the collar of his T-shirt.

"You've gotta go see somebody, Booth," Hank said pleadingly.

Booth opened his mouth to say something but his friend continued before he could get a word out.

"Look—before you pull any of that tough guy crap with me, just listen. The shit you've been through—I mean, both the stuff you've been through in Afghanistan, with losing your unit, and surviving that whole thing, and all the shit you've been through before that…in the Gulf, Somalia, Kosovo, and all that covert hooah shit you did in the Rangers before I ever even met you—it's a lot to deal with, even for an ironclad guy like you."

"I know," Booth said. "You've been telling me for years now to—"

"Yeah, and I'm right," Hank said, a smile shining through in the tone of his voice. "It's the only way I was able to get my shit together, Booth. And it's gonna be the only way you're gonna get yours together."

Booth sighed. "It wasn't supposed to be like this," he murmured into the phone.

"Yeah," Hank snorted. "Well, that train left the fucking station twenty years ago, Booth, the second the ink dried on your enlistment papers. You know that's not how it works, right?"

Rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand, Booth groaned. "I guess," he grunted. "I don't want to fuck this up, Hank."

"You mean with Temperance?"

For a couple of seconds, Booth sat there, leaning against the dresser in stunned silence. "How did you know?"

"Oh, come on," Hank Luttrell laughed. "I knew from the very first moment I heard you say her name tonight," he said. "The way your voice changed when you said it. Pardon the expression, buddy, but it was cute." Booth raised an eyebrow. "Seriously, man. I'm really happy for you, Booth. Maybe…" Hank hesitated. "Maybe this time, you'll go get the help you need, 'cause you've got more to lose if you don't."

Booth's brow knit low over his eyes as he looked at the rumpled comforter on the bed, then down at the floor, wiggling his boot against the ugly commercial-grade taupe carpet.

"The Army's got programs now, Booth, you know…"

"I'm not…I can't, Hank. I can't talk to the Army. No way."

Hank heard the gravity in Booth's voice, a heaviness that cut through the static and across the thousands of miles. "Why?" he asked. "What's going on?"

Booth sucked in a deep breath between his teeth and clenched his eyes shut, exhaling slowly before speaking. "When they told me the Chinooks went down because of a mid-air collision, at first I took it at face value, you know." He thought back to that afternoon in the hospital, when Colonel Wilkins came into his room with a Catholic chaplain, Father (Lt. Col.) McNamara. "I mean, that kind of thing has happened over there, with the flight conditions and the intense operational tempo, those birds—and the pilots for that matter—are getting the crap pounded out of them, and, so…it happens, right?"

"Of course," Hank agreed, a vague hesitation in his voice as he waited for the other shoe to drop.

"And I didn't know any better," Booth said. "I couldn't remember anything about…you know, the crash…I didn't even remember I was there, or how I'd gotten hurt, so when they told me the other guys in my unit were all gone, Killed In Flight Accident, I was like, okay."

"But," Hank prompted him.

Booth shrugged. "But when the memories started coming back—and especially the last few days, and I'm remembering more about what I saw and heard right before those Chinooks went down and I got hurt when my position came crashing down around my ears—I'm not so sure anymore, Hank." He sighed. "I think the Army's not being honest about what happened to those aircraft. But I'm the only one who was there, and my memory hasn't been the most reliable," he said, his voice dropping to just barely above a whisper. "And the docs here at Bagram know that."

"So right now it's your word against the Army's?"

Booth's shoulders slumped as he stared at his sand-colored boots. "Yeah, basically," he said. "I can't prove it, but I remember hearing what I swear to God was an RPG, and then two seconds later, the first of the aircraft issued a mayday and then lost all radio contact. Then another crashing sound and the roof caved in on me."

"This may sound naïve," Hank said by way of preface, "but have you spoken to your CO about this?"

"3rd SFG is holding fast to the story that the birds went down because of pilot error," Booth said, the frustration bleeding through at the edges of each word. "I don't know what to do. I'd swear in front of God and all the saints that what I heard that afternoon was a surface-to-air projectile, probably an RPG-7, and those twenty-one guys—my guys, Hank—they're not KIFA. They're fucking _KIA_, and their families deserve to know that." Booth took a breath and tried to calm himself down. "But I don't know what to do."

Several moments of static-filled silence passed between them.

"How much longer you think you'll be over there in Afghanistan?" Hank asked.

Booth looked up and out the window, noting that the sun was moving lower in the sky as he glanced at his watch. "I'm not sure," he said. "Bet it'll be at least a couple of more weeks before they can do anything about this arm, in terms of knowing whether or not I'll need another surgery to address this nerve thing. If they decide I need surgery, I'll probably be sent home, but I don't know where or how quickly. If they don't decide to have me get surgery, I don't know—I mean, I can't go back into combat, even after I get the cast off, because I can't feel half my hand and I doubt I can shoot worth a damn. And the pain—"

"I don't think you've got a lot of good options as long as you're over there," Hank said grimly. "But if you can get back stateside, I'd say your best bet…" His voice trailed off and Booth heard his friend's hesitation.

"What?" he growled impatiently.

"Army IG," Hank said. "I mean, your Army career is shot anyway, right? Career—who are we kidding, right? You don't want to stay in anyway." A couple of seconds passed before he added with a grin that Booth could hear over the phone, "I know you, Booth—you want to get back to the FBI, solving murders and, God willing, settle down and make babies with your bone lady, right? You want to get the fuck out of the Army."

Booth felt his chest swell and his heart flutter at Hank's cheeky, but undeniable, observation about him and his dreams for himself and Brennan. _I do want to go home and make a life with her, _he thought. _Maybe, after I get my shit together again, maybe Bones will wanna think about having a baby like she was talking about before I got my brain tumor. _He closed his eyes and shook away the thought. _First things first, _he told himself.

"Yeah," he agreed. "But the IG? You think I should go to the Army Inspector General?" he asked in a whisper. "That's like the point of no return, Hank."

"I'm not sure what other options you have," Hank admitted. "If you think you can't go to your CO."

"I don't know," Booth grumbled, suddenly hedging. "Thing is, I can't prove it, Hank. All I've got is my own memories, you know. With all the crazy shit that's been going through my head, I can't see anyone taking anything I remember as rock-solid proof of anything and believing me. Hell, I don't know if _I _believe me."

"Well," Hank sighed. "I hear what you're saying, and I understand it, but if you want to wait until you have solid proof before stepping forward to raise the issue with the IG…you may be stuck with this secret for a long, long time."

"I don't know what to do," Booth said glumly. "I don't know."

"Do what you do best, Booth," Hank said. "Go with your gut."

* * *

><p><strong>AN****: **_A bit of a dialogue-heavy chapter, but what else can you do? The whole thing was a phone conversation. Booth's definitely got an opinion on what happened to the Chinooks. So, what's our boy gonna do? Is he gonna make one more run at talking to Col. Wilkins? Or is he gonna blow the whistle on the whole situation? But with what proof? _::chews fingernails::

_What do you think? Tell me. Please. Please, please, PLEASE—don't read and run._

_Tell me what you think about what happened in this chapter. I pour my heart and soul into each of these chapters—especially one like this—and I'm desperate to know what you think._

_So please, tell me what you think..._

_Remember—I'm dying here, folks._


	27. Picking Up Sticks

**Killing Two Birds**

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><p><strong>By:<strong> dharmamonkey  
><strong>Rated:<strong> M  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> _Hart Hanson owns _Bones_. But people like me who play in his sandbox give you all those delicious little moments that Hart and friends leave out. In this case, AU do-overs for that gap between Seasons 5 and 6 that wrought so much havoc for our heroes. That's why you read fanfic._

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><p><strong><span>AN:**

1) **Acronyms/terminology**: _A reviewer noted that I'm using some terminology the meaning of which may not be immediately evident. Here are some you'll want to take note of because they show up in this chapter:_

**Tanakh: **_A Hebrew acronym formed from the initial Hebrew letters of the Masoretic Text's three traditional subdivisions: The Torah ("Teaching", also known as the Five Books of Moses), Nevi'im ("Prophets") and Ketuvim ("Writings"). Term is used by Jews to refer to the Hebrew Bible._

**VA:** _Veterans Administration (provides range of assistance to military veterans, including post-discharge medical care and financial assistance, like mortgage guarantees)_

**Executive Officer (XO): **_In the US Army and Marine Corps, an officer that is second in command of a military unit. The XO is typically responsible for the management of day-to-day activities, such as maintenance and logistics, freeing the unit commander to concentrate on tactical planning and execution._

2) **Emotional chapter warning:**_ A possible Kleenex warning applies here, folks. Not as bad as previous ones, but..._

_So, anyways—alright, without further ado, let's go back to Bagram._

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><p><strong>Chapter 27: Picking Up Sticks<strong>

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><p>Though she would never admit it to Booth or to Wendell, Brennan found herself looking forward to the email she received every morning from the free Bible-as-literature course she had signed up for. It wasn't that she was looking for faith—though it was true that, over the years, she had come to appreciate that there are things which are real which are not tangible or even provable—because she was not.<p>

Rather, a few days after arriving from Maluku, as she watched Booth stand beside her, sifting his comrades' remains out of the splintered wreckage of the two Army helicopters, she found herself admiring Booth for his fortitude and his faith. While in the days following, it became clear that the loss he had suffered challenged his strength, it seemed that his faith itself—not just his faith in the Christian God, but his faith that some good would come of things, even absolutely horrendous things—had not been damaged. She admired him for this, even as she watched him suffer and spiral, wracked by the pain of loss and guilt, and she wanted to understand his faith as a way of understanding, at least in part, what made him so strong.

_If Booth sees the world through the prism of his Catholic beliefs and the religious writings that inform that set of beliefs, _she told herself, _then if I want to understand Booth and how to help him be strong as he recovers from this, I need to learn more about the basic texts of that belief system. _That first night at Bagram, sitting alone in her quarters, she found an email-based Bible course taught by a former lecturer in Old Testament at Brandeis University. And so it was that Temperance Brennan, a rational empiricist through and through who was quite certain in her own mind that the Judeo-Christian god was a myth—a powerful symbol around which entire ideologies had been built—came to spend a few minutes a day reading the email lesson about a Bible verse.

After she finished her report on the first and second of the three sets of remains that she and Wendell had identified that day, she sat down on her stool at the steel table nearest the hangar door and read the daily _eTanakh _email (the name of it caused her to smirk—yet another example of how anything, _anything_, can be made cleverer-sounding just by adding the prefix_ e- _to the beginning). One of the things that attracted her to this particular email-based course was that its instructor had an excellent background, coming from Brandeis University, home of the country's foremost Judaic studies department and, along with Yeshiva University in New York, home to the country's best scholars of the Hebrew Old Testament.

She was also interested in the fact that, while the instructor of the course was, obviously, Jewish, he made an effort to explain the significance of the daily passage both from the Jewish and a Christian perspective. Of course, she liked that the instructor provided the reading both in Hebrew and in English, even though her own knowledge of Hebrew was extremely limited. Somehow, it seemed to her that furnishing the reading in both the original Hebrew text along with a contemporary English translation made the whole thing seem more faithful—pun intended—and, in a sense, more solidly grounded in primary sources than in endless respinning of badly translated retellings of an ancient myth.

That afternoon, as she waited for Wendell to finish preparing his draft report on the third of the three sets of remains, she read the lesson about the fifty-third chapter of the Book of Isaiah, the last of the Four Songs of the Suffering Servant, also known as the Man of Sorrows.

נִבְזֶה וַחֲדַל אִישִׁים, אִישׁ מַכְאֹבוֹת וִידוּעַ חֹלִי; וּכְמַסְתֵּר פָּנִים מִמֶּנּוּ, נִבְזֶה וְלֹא חֲשַׁבְנֻהוּ

_"He was despised and rejected—a man of sorrows, acquainted with deepest grief. We turned our backs on him and looked the other way. He was despised, and we did not care."_

The Hebrew term, _ish makh'ovot_, literally translated to a 'man of pains,' suggested an individual who knew great suffering, both physical and emotional. The eleventh century Jewish commentator, Rashi, believed that the Man of Sorrows referred to the people Israel, the Jewish people. Brennan found that interesting, especially in the context of all that had happened to the Jewish people in the centuries after Rashi—the blood libel and all of its consequences, visited again and again upon the Jews during the Middle Ages, particularly during times of plague like the mid-fourteenth century, the crowding of Jews into ghettoes and the widespread socio-economic discrimination that continued well into the late 20th century. The Christian view, of course, was different, and taught universally that the Man of Sorrows was an Old Testament messianic prophecy fulfilled by Jesus, who suffered incredibly during the course of his short life, and whose suffering and death atoned for the sins of humanity. Both views depended on a metaphoric reading of the passage.

Brennan's phone chirped and she retrieved it from her pocket.

_Talked to Hank. Went OK. When RU going 2B ready for p/u?_

She smiled and rolled her eyes at Booth's shorthand. Glancing over to Wendell, who stood at one of the steel tables drumming his gloved fingers on the top of the table, chewing the end of his pen, then jotting something down on the preliminary report worksheet. _Twenty minutes, _she thumbed back, then hit 'send.'

A few moments later, her phone chirped again. _CU in 20. _She shook her head and slid the phone back in her pocket.

She looked back at the passage on her laptop screen:

"_He was despised and rejected—a man of sorrows, acquainted with deepest grief. We turned our backs on him and looked the other way. He was despised, and we did not care."_

Brennan looked around their half of the hangar and her eyes fell on the two black vinyl body bags that contained the two individuals she had identified that day. She thought about how, on the first night she was at Bagram, she turned on the TV in her room and caught a CNN report on the helicopter crash. It was the worst catastrophe ever for US forces in Afghanistan, even worse than when a Chinook was brought down by hostile fire in 2005, killing 16 American servicemen—in that case, Navy SEALs. Yet two days later, the story had vanished from the airwaves, forgotten. _"We turned our backs on him and looked the other way." _She thought about the case she and Booth worked early on during their partnership, the one involving the National Guard soldier whose charred remains were found on a comrade's grave at Arlington. _I learned a lot about Booth during the course of that case, _she thought. _"He was despised and rejected—a man of sorrows, acquainted with the deepest grief." _She thought about the young man from the victim's Guard unit—_what was his name? ah, yes—_Jimmy_, _who was severely traumatized, wracked by guilt and emotional pain to the point he couldn't even function and was consigned to the psychiatric ward of a VA hospital because his dysfunction was too much even for his wife to manage. It seemed that for the first twenty-four or forty-eight hours after the Helmand crash, it was the top story on the news. Then the world moved on—the country moved on—and these men, along with their names, their faces, their sacrifices, disappeared off the radar of collective consciousness.

Brennan's phone chirped again. _I'm outside. Did you ID anybody today? _She took a deep breath and thumbed back a response. _Three. Are you sure you're OK to come in? We can hold off turning them over to the 54th until tomorrow if you want. _With a _fwip_ sound, the message zipped off. Ten seconds later, Booth's reply came through. _My guys deserve to go home. Let me say goodbye to them, then we'll go to dinner._ Brennan felt a burning in her eyes signal a welling up of emotion, and she rubbed her mouth with her hand as she sighed, glancing back at her protégé as she mentally composed a reply to Booth. Before she could type a response, another message came through. _Let's make dinner quick. We need to talk._ She felt her stomach sink. He'd told her his call with Hank went 'OK,' which Brennan knew, after more than five years of working with him, meant 'fair' or 'not great' or, more typically, 'I don't want to talk about it.' _Alright, _she thumbed back.

"Mr. Bray?" she called out to her assistant. "Are you finished? Booth's here. I'd like you to package those remains before he gets in here. Now."

"Wha—?" Wendell's head snapped up and he jerked the earbuds out of his ears. His brain—which had been entirely focused on summarizing his findings on the ID worksheet and making that summary as accurate as possible, knowing that Brennan would go through it with a fine-toothed comb—finally caught up. "Oh, yes, absolutely," he stammered, caught off a little guard by her terseness. "Sure. Right away." He turned around and pulled the vinyl bag closed around the remains, then zipped it up just moments before the hangar door opened with a creak.

Brennan turned around and folded her laptop shut. "Booth," she said, sliding off her stool and walking over to embrace him. He hugged her tightly against him with his healthy arm, letting his casted arm rest lightly against the small of her back.

"Hey Bones," he said, clasping his hand around her shoulder as he kissed the top of her head. "I missed you this afternoon," he whispered as they pulled apart.

"I know," she said quietly. "I missed you, too, Booth. I'm sorry—" She paused, glancing over at the three black vinyl bags arrayed on tables near the far side of their area of the hangar, then back at Booth's sad brown eyes. "Are you…you know, you don't have to do this today, Booth. We can do this in the morning, and—"

"No," he said firmly, rubbing his nose and sighing as he walked towards the first table. "Who are they?" he asked grimly.

Brennan felt suddenly a little faint as she felt an emotion she couldn't quite name wash over her. _Booth knows these men, _she thought_. These men are not just names. He knew them. And the ones who were in his Special Forces unit, he knew them very well, perhaps as well as I know many of the people I work with at the Jeffersonian. He worked with them every day, ate, slept, played—and, perhaps, prayed—with them. These names I am going to give him, these aren't just…wow, Booth. You have no idea how strong you are, doing this. _She met his warm, tear-damp eyes with hers and pressed her lips firmly together as she reached for his hand.

"Who—?" he prompted her, squeezing her hand in his.

"That," she pointed to the table farthest to the left, "is Staff Sergeant John Hackett."

"Oh, Hackett," Booth whispered, his breath catching in his throat. "He was one of mine," he said, straining to keep a straight face though his mouth forced a frown despite his efforts.

She felt Booth squeeze her hand tightly enough that it was somewhat uncomfortable, but she did not flinch or pull away. She pointed to a table immediately to the right. "That's Staff Sergeant John McNamara…" Booth took a breath and nodded. She raised her hand that he was holding in his and gestured towards the table nearest them. "And that is Warrant Officer Richard Sivick."

Booth's mouth fell open and he shook his head slowly. "He was the XO—the executive officer—of Operational Detachment Alpha 3623."

Brennan nodded. "I know. Do you—?" She looked down at their clasped hands.

"Will you stand with me?" he asked quietly, uncertainty wrinkling his brow. "I mean, while I—" He shifted his stance and looked at her expectantly.

She put her hand over his so that his left hand was sandwiched between hers. "Of course, Booth." He pursed his lips and nodded, then walked over to the table that held Sivick's remains.

Brennan released his hand, knowing that he would want to touch the edge of the bag, having watched him do this before with Swann's and Lukas' remains. He clenched his eyes shut, loosening a couple of tears which he wiped away with the thumb of his right hand. He took a long, deep breath and reached his left hand out, gingerly touching the flat, smooth edge of the bag, stroking the slick, cold material with the tips of his fingers. She listened to him speak in a low, quiet tone to the bagged skeleton that was once one of his officers. She hung back, standing a couple of feet behind him as he talked to the remains, his voice breaking as he snuffled, wiping the tears from his eyes as he stood over the edge of the table, his shoulders slumped as he spoke. His voice finally trailed off, and, taking a deep breath, he pounded the side of his left fist on the edge of the steel table before shrugging and stepping back.

Brennan stood there, unmoving, simply watching him as he stepped away from Sivick's remains. She watched him hesitate, pausing to say just a few almost inaudible words to the remains of McNamara, the Chinook door gunner, before walking over to the table that held Hackett's body. Again he hesitated, then turned to look back at her.

"Bones?"

"Yes, Booth," she said quietly, still not moving out of fear that he wanted these goodbyes to be private.

He jerked his chin slightly in the direction of Hackett's table and raised his eyebrows in a gesture that she always felt made him look almost childlike—the same expression she observed when she saw him laying in the pre-op suite before his brain surgery. "Come 'ere," he said, gesturing for her to come closer.

She narrowed her eyes, momentarily puzzled at why he would want her to join him, but smiled faintly as she realized she was helpless in that moment, as usual, to resist his pleading brown eyes. "Okay," she whispered, taking her place behind him and bringing her hand up to rub circles over the flat, hard space between his shoulder blades. She felt him take a deep breath as he once more reached out to touch the edge of his comrade's vinyl body bag. She opened her mouth but closed it again as he began to speak to the remains.

"I'm sorry, Hackett," he whispered. "I'm sorry this happened to you, man. You were a good kid. A total pain in my ass, a lot of the time, you know—" Booth's face broke into a grin as a memory flickered before him. "A bit of a rascal you were, but a good kid—and a fine soldier."

_Booth sat around the table with Bastone, Parnell, Lukas, Kennedy and Hackett. It was their last free night before they would begin the process of deploying to Afghanistan. The table was crowded with beer bottles and pint glasses in varying stages of consumption, three ashtrays and four lit cigarettes—the latter thanks to Bastone who, after enjoying a two-hour head start drinking with Booth, was just drunk enough to have forgotten he already had one half-smoked before he lit up a new one. _

"_So you buyin' my rounds there, Parnell?" Lukas asked as he drained the last of his Bud and waggled the empty bottle in the air as Clarissa glanced over at the table of loud, half-drunk soldiers._

"_Fuck you, Lukas," Parnell growled, then winked as a grin broke across his lips. "Nope—the only one whose drinks I'm buyin' is the Sergeant Major's, and only because he's a ringer."_

_Booth flashed his eyebrows and chuckled. "I'm not a ringer, you douche," he retorted, elbowing the Bostonian in the bicep. "You just underestimated the fuck out of me. You should've waited forty-eight hours before passing judgment on what I can and cannot do." He tapped a curved forefinger against his temple. "A smart man will watch for a little while before opening his yap."_

"_Which presupposes that Parnell is a smart man," Bastone interjected, blowing a puff of smoke out of his mouth with each word. _

"_Fuck you, Bastone," Parnell snorted, raising his hand and giving the Brooklyn-bred First Sergeant a firm middle finger._

"_No thanks," Bastone replied. "I'm already in a relationship, but I appreciate the offer."_

_Glancing at the two of them with a laugh, Booth emptied his pint glass of the last swallow of Pabst Blue Ribbon, then stood up, signaling Clarissa with a circular motion over the table to come over and restock everyone's drinks. _

"_Where you going?" Hackett asked Booth. Kennedy's head swiveled around with an eye-twinkling smirk._

"_Why are you so interested?" he grunted. "If he's gonna go take a piss, you gonna go with him and be his penis-valet?"_

_The entire group roared with laughter, and Hackett's face flushed scarlet. _

"_I've seen Hackett bench," Bastone laughed. "I'm not sure he can lift what the Sergeant Major's packing. I'm told that belt buckle is no exaggeration" _

_Booth slapped the back of Bastone's head. "Be nice," he snickered. He took pity on Hackett, whose ears were bright red, and gestured for him to follow. "We're gonna go load up some tunes, boys. We'll be back in a minute." _

_Hackett sighed heavily as he and Booth walked over to the jukebox. "Thanks," he muttered. _

_"Sorry about that," Booth said, glancing back at the group and arching an eyebrow. _

"_S'not your fault," Hackett said. "I kinda walked right into that one, to be honest."_

_Booth shrugged. "Maybe," he said noncommittally. "So, let's tee up some tunage here, kid." He reached into his back pocket, pulled out his wallet and peeled a ten dollar bill out. "Ground rules—no death metal, no gansta rap, no pop country, no techno shit. Otherwise, I'm pretty open, okay?"_

_Hackett snatched the bill out of Booth's fingers. "Deal." He quickly began picking songs, his fingers flying over the menus at a speed that impressed Booth, who shook his head and rolled his eyes._

"_And one more thing," Booth said as he leaned over Hackett's shoulder and started navigating through the touchscreen back to the main menu. "I pick every third song." Seeing Hackett's surprise, he added, "So us old guys have something to tap our feet to, right?"_

"_Shit," Hackett muttered. "You and the old guy stuff. Since I'm never gonna live down that one comment, I might as well just gonna keep it up."_

_Booth grinned. "You do that," he said with a laugh. "Just remember—you can try, but you'll never out-snark me, kid. I'm from the mean streets of Philly. You dish it out, kiddo, and I'll dish it back, in spades."_

"_Game on, Sergeant Major."_

_The first notes of Hackett's first song choice began to play over the PA, and Booth glanced up as the low tenor began to sing:_

I'm waiting in my cold cell, when the bell begins to chime.  
>Reflecting on my past life and it doesn't have much time.<br>'Cause at 5 o'clock they take me to the Gallows Pole.  
>The sands of time for me are running low...<p>

_He shot Hackett a strange look as the band's guitars and drums rose up in a crash of sound and the young soldier began to bang his head in time with the bassist's thundering gallop._

"I wanted to see you finish up this deployment, you and Swann, and see both you guys ETS the hell out of the Army. I was real excited when I heard you talking about going back to Arizona and using the GI bill to go to Arizona State." He smiled and shrugged at another memory. "You and that ratty old Sun Devils ballcap you always wore in the barracks. You'd have liked college, kid—all the cool classes, the parties, the girls, the chance to do something with yourself, you know, anything you wanted to, and—" His voice cracked, and Brennan squeezed his shoulder in encouragement. "And I'm sorry." He leaned his head back, sighed and swallowed, then let his head fall once more. Brennan's hand crept up and gently stroked the short hair on the nape of his neck before her hand slid over and rubbed the muscular round of his shoulder.

She leaned in and nuzzled her nose against the back of his shoulder. _"A man of sorrows, acquainted with deepest grief. We turned our backs on him and looked the other way." _As she listened to him swallow his grief, his muscles tense as he tried to hold in his pain, she squeezed the top of his bicep, just above the cast. "You're not alone, Booth," she whispered. "You're not alone. It's okay to feel."

He bumped his fist against the edge of Hackett's table, sucking in deep breath between his teeth as he clenched his eyes shut, trying to contain the sob that he felt bubbling in his chest. "Thanks, Bones," he choked, turning his head to the right to catch her lips brushing against his jaw.

She rested her chin on his shoulder for several moments as their eyes surveyed the three body bags arrayed before them.

"Oh, Booth," she whispered.

* * *

><p>By the time they got back to the room after dinner, Brennan felt as if that one day had been seven. Truth be told, though she had only been in Afghanistan for a couple of weeks, it seemed like months after all of the rolling seas of emotion she had ridden since departing Maluku. Each day—between dealing with Booth, helping him manage the situation he was in, both with his ailing arm and the continuing flood of flashbacks and obtrusive recovered memories (and all the consequences ensuing from that), plus the work she and Wendell were doing in the hangar—she came home exhausted, physically and mentally. That night was no different, except that she knew Booth wanted to talk to her. She wanted to talk to him, too, to hear how his chat with Hank Luttrell went, but she knew he had something he wanted to discuss. He wore a heavy, worried expression on his face, with a certain wide look in his brown eyes, his eyebrows slightly bent and his forehead crinkled as he sat there at dinner, silently munching on his hamburger as Wendell Bray spoke animatedly about the change in starting pitchers for that night's baseball game. She knew that for Booth to sit quiet and distracted amid a discussion of a sporting event like Game 1 of the World Series, something was bothering him deeply. And that worried her. Booth's quiet disinterest and her worry caught her assistant's attention, leading him to fall silent as the two of them sat quietly, staring at the food on their respective plates.<p>

"Booth?" she said as she walked back into the bedroom from the bathroom. He'd already changed out of his ACUs and was standing somewhat dazedly in front of the closet in a pair of black boxer-briefs and his sand-colored uniform T-shirt.

He turned to her. "Yeah," he said, reaching down to peel the T-shirt over his head and arms, tossing the dirty garment into a pile of laundry at the bottom of the closet. He walked over to the dresser and retrieved a well-worn gray Penn State tee, but stood there for a few seconds before blinking out of his trance and pulling it on.

"Are you alright, Booth?" she asked. "Do you want to turn on the game?" She pursed her lips, fairly certain what his answer would be. She kicked off her shoes, pulled off her slacks and reached for her yoga pants as she listened for his response.

He plunked down on the bed, pulling his legs up and, bracing his arm on his knee, leaned his head on his hand. "Come over here, Bones," he said, in a low voice that was not quite sad, but heavy with an emotion that Brennan couldn't readily identify. He patted the bed next to him. "Come on."

She pulled her tank top over her head, straightened the hem and walked over to the bed to join him. "What's going on, Booth?" she asked.

Booth's face fell and he sighed loudly. "So I talked to Hank this afternoon," he said.

"How did that go?" Brennan reached over and cupped her hand over his shin, gently stroking her fingers over the crisp light brown curls that covered his leg.

He smiled at her touch. "Well," he said with a soft shake of his head. "It's not an easy thing, you know."

"I know," she whispered, stilling her hand. "But I'm glad you called him."

Booth rubbed his eyes with the palm of his free hand. "I told him about everything, you know—what happened to me down there in Marjeh, the memories and the dreams I've been having, and—"

Brennan narrowed her eyes. "Did you tell him about the dream you had about him?"

He swallowed and looked away briefly. "No," he whispered. "I—no, I didn't. I just felt…kind of weird about it." She nodded but said nothing. "I told him about…" He hesitated again.

"About you hitting me?" she prompted him. Though the experience was still very raw, the words themselves sounded very unreal as they fell from her lips.

"Yeah," he admitted. "He…well, he told me about what had happened to him after he got back from Kosovo, you know, paralyzed. He spent almost half a year at Walter Reed, getting surgeries, therapy and all that. And when he got out, he was…" His voice trailed off again.

Brennan cocked her head. "What?"

"He was all screwed up." Booth placed his hand over hers, threading his fingers between hers, rubbing their clasped hands over his shin. "All screwed up—bitter, angry, depressed, the whole enchilada. He said he turned into a 'monster.' I didn't know all this, because I was still in the Rangers—I didn't get out until the end of 1999, after my back ended up being a bit too fucked up after Kosovo to continue jumping out of airplanes, humping a hundred-pound rucksack, spending long hours laying on my belly in the dirt staring downrange through a scope, sleeping in the cold, twenty-mile road marches and all that shit."

She nodded, her sympathetic eyes gazing into his as she leaned over and kissed his arm. "What happened?"

He took another slow breath. "He got help," he explained. "Therapy. I mean, real therapy. Not the cockamamie, mumbo-jumbo feel-good crap that we do with Sweets. I mean, he talked to somebody who deals with helping combat veterans deal with being injured, and sort through the stuff that happened to them. And it helped him."

"That's great, Booth," she said. "So, do you think—?"

Booth leaned his head back and closed his eyes. "He suggested I see one of these Army shrinks, but I told him no."

"_Why_, Booth?" she asked, her voice suddenly sharp-edged with frustration. "I don't understand, Booth. Gordon Gordon can't be your therapist—he's a stopgap measure, Booth. You need to find someone who—"

"I know!" he snapped, regretting as soon as he said it the angry tone he'd used with her. "I know," he said more softly, squeezing her hand gently. "I know I need help. God, I know that. And…" He paused, glancing over to the window as a fuel truck rumbled by on the street below. "I want to see someone, but I want to wait 'til I get back home, you know, to the States."

"I don't understand, Booth," she said pleadingly. "We talked about this, and how you need to get help for this, Booth. It's more than I can help you with. It's more than you can handle on your own. Talking to Gordon Gordon was just to tide you over until we could find someone else—a professional in the field—who you could talk to. You have to do this, Booth. You said this morning you were committed to getting better."

"I know," he said glumly. He opened his mouth again to speak, but hesitated. He brought his casted hand up and rubbed the back of his head.

"You should take advantage of the resources the Army has to offer, Booth."

"I can't," he said weakly.

"I don't understand why not," she told him.

"Because I know what happened," he said darkly. "Because I know."

Brennan turned to him and saw his eyes darken, the muscles of his mouth tense and his jaw harden as he looked back at her. There was an anger in his expression that frightened her, more for what that anger would do to him than because of any danger it posed to her. She knew that Booth was capable of intense anger and that anger, his anger in particular, was corrosive. She thought of the Buddhist proverb that said, _"Holding on to anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else; you are the one who gets burned." _She hoped this change in his mood was not a sign that his melancholy was turning to anger, an emotion she feared might be even more difficult for him—or her—to manage.

"What do you know, Booth?"

He rolled his jaw from side to side, his brows knit hard and low over his deep-set eyes. He shook his head at an unspoken thought, then turned to her.

"I know what took those choppers down." He loosened his grasp on her hand. "It's…I don't know…" He ran his hand over the top of his head as if expecting to find long enough hair to thread his fingers through before sighing again.

"The memories have been coming back, the last couple of days, you know—the memories of what happened to me that day, before the choppers crashed and I got hurt." He swallowed the hard lump in his throat.

"_Forester Niner, Forester Niner, this is Forester Two. Seven hundred meters and closing. Please acknowledge, over."_

"_Forester Two, Forester Two, this is Forester Niner. Acknowledged, seven hundred meters and closing. Target sighted at location Coyote-Alpha along with two other suspected Tango-Indias. Please acknowledge, over."_

"Those birds were _taken down_, Bones. I—look, it's hard to explain, but…well, basically, I'm remembering more now, about what was happening in the minutes just before, and what I heard."

_He sat cross-legged in the back of the room with his left arm firmly braced on top of his left knee and clasping his right forearm for stability. The afternoon sun blazed through the window and cast a sharp-edged shadow on the floor. It was a pleasant fall day, and Booth could hear the_ adhān, _the muezzin's call to prayer, ring out from the mosque a few blocks away: _

_Ash-hadu al-la ilaha illa llah  
>Ash-hadu anna Muħammadu Rasulullah<br>Hayya 'ala s-salah…_

"What did you hear, Booth?" Brennan asked quietly, shifting her hips on the bed as she turned to face him. "What did you hear?"

_He felt his heart rate begin to creep up as he waited for the first helicopter to respond to his call. As the muezzin's voice trailed off, Booth felt his eye twitch. He felt a dark swirl in his gut as he heard a strange sequence of sounds amid the faint and ever-louder sound of the approaching helicopter rotors. He heard a soft plunk that he swore came from the area behind the café, followed by a sharply zipping swoosh that seemed to pass right over his head. A couple of seconds later, he was shaken by the sound of a loud explosion behind him and to his left._

"Bones," he whispered. "As God is my witness, those sounds I heard—those were the sounds of an RPG-7 being fired at an airborne target. I know that sound. It's un-_fucking_-mistakable."

"You're sure?" she asked him. "You're certain?"

"Yes," he said firmly. "Absolutely certain."

She nodded, her mouth gaping slightly as she listened carefully to the tone of his voice. "How can you be sure, Booth? I mean, of what you heard?"

He turned again to look out the window, watching the beams of light cast by a pickup passing by the window stroke over the back side of the building across the street.

"Because I've fired one," he said quietly. "And I've heard them fired a hundred times. I spent two days last spring training a platoon of Afghan soldiers how to fire RPG-7s. I know that sound. And heaven help me, Bones, that's what I heard zip over my head in the seconds before I heard that first explosion. Somebody shot down one of those choppers, and when it got hit, and one of the rotors failed, it started to spin out of control." He gestured with his hands, imitating the countervailing motion of the pair rotors on a Chinook. "See, Bones, on a tandem-rotor aircraft like a Chinook, one rotor turns clockwise and the other one turns counterclockwise. This enables the aircraft to move like this." He demonstrated with his left hand the movement of the helicopter. "But if you lose a rotor, there's nothing to counteract the torque from the surviving rotor, so the aircraft can go into an uncontrolled spin."

"_Forester Two, please acknowledge, over," he said into his headset, trying to maintain his calm and a steady breath as he continued to watch the scene in the café across the street._

_His call was met only by silence. "Forester Two, please acknowledge, over!"_

"I heard two crashes, Bones," he explained, his words coming quickly. "After that explosion, I heard a crash across the street, which was one of the helos crashing into that teahouse. Then I heard the sounds of rotors coming really, really close, and then a really loud _crack_…" He shouted the word _crack _as if to help her appreciate the sound. "Behind me, you know. That was the second aircraft, crashing into the building I was in. Then it all went black. Next thing I knew, I woke up in a Marine MEDEVAC chopper…"

He raised both hands to his eyes and sighed. "One of those choppers, probably the one that landed on the teahouse, got shot down, and when it spun out of control, probably after losing the function in one of the rotors, it collided with the other one, and they both went down. I know it, Bones. I'm sure of it. The sounds I heard—they're unmistakable. But I can't _prove _it."

"Yes you can, Booth," she whispered, bringing her hand back and placing it on his knee. "You can."

He shook his head despondently. "No," he said grimly. "It's just my memory—which hasn't exactly been reliable lately, you know. It's my word against the Army's."

Brennan shook her head. "No, but Booth—"

He raised his hand up to stop her. "Look, I tried to say something to my colonel, Wilkins, about it, you know when I met with him a few days ago, but he told me in no uncertain terms to drop the issue. He basically threatened to court-martial me if I didn't drop it."

"_Sergeant Major," Wilkins said sharply. "Your orders are to provide the support necessary to ensure that the anthropologists can promptly identify the remains of all of the U.S. Army soldiers killed in this incident. Anything beyond that—any inquiry, any disruption, manipulation or destruction of evidence—anything, Sergeant Major, constitutes a violation of a direct order which I will not hesitate to address by whatever means necessary."_

"_But, sir," Booth said, his brow furrowed as his heart pounded in his chest._

"_Am I making myself understood here, Sergeant Major?" Wilkins snapped. "This is not a federal case and you are not an FBI agent here, Booth. There's a time and a place. This is not the time, and this sure as hell is not your place. The Army has concluded its findings on this incident." He leveled a hard stare at Booth, who looked down and stared at his boots, his teeth gritted behind closed lips. "You have a job to do, Sergeant Major. I suggest you go do it, and leave matters like this to the experts. Do you understand me?"_

"_Yes, sir."_

"I have the proof," Brennan said. "I can prove that you are right, and that the Army's explanation is—well, inaccurate."

Booth's eyes widened. "You do?"

She raised her eyebrows and smiled faintly, then, patting his knee affectionately, rolled off the bed and walked over to her well-worn, waxed canvas messenger bag that was sitting on top of the desk. She lifted the flap, reached inside, unzipped an inner compartment, and pulled out a small plastic bag.

"What is that?" he asked as she walked back to the bed.

"You tell me." She handed him the bag, which he accepted gingerly, holding the small bag in the palm of his hand as he stared at it. Inside the tiny, zip-locked bag was a half-inch sliver of brown steel.

_Crouching down next to what used to be the trunk of a early-80s Datsun, Booth narrowed his eyes and tapped his finger against the side of the trigger assembly as he scanned the length of the street. His heart was pounding in his ears and he could feel his pulse throb in his thumb as he tried to steady his hold on his weapon._

"_RPG," Bastone whispered as he thumbed through a handful of debris that lay in the sand next to his boot. "Looks like they wired a bunch of RPG-7 rounds together to a detonator."_

"_What? How can you tell that?" Booth asked, pointing to the metal-strewn sand with a jerk of his chin. "From that?"_

"_I was EOD when I first went in," Bastone explained. "Before I decided to become a ground-pounding trigger-puller." Booth cocked an eyebrow in surprise. "Hey, I know." The first sergeant held out his hand and, slinging his weapon under his arm, pointed to a pair of inch-long slivers of brown metal. "That's what's left of an RPG-7 round, baby."_

Booth's mouth fell open. "Holy Mary, mother of God," he whispered, looking up into his partner's pale gray eyes. "That's…" He felt faint, his breath constrained by a sudden a tightness in his chest. "It's an RPG-7," he said quietly. "What's left of one. Where did you find this?"

She looked at him and pressed her lips in a firm line, hesitating before she finally spoke. "Several sets of the remains had this kind of material embedded in them." Brennan sighed and continued. "But that's not all," she said.

Booth's brow wrinkled in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"I can prove your theory right," she said. "Even without that." She pointed to the sliver.

"You can?" he gasped. He closed his fist around the bagged sliver of steel.

Brennan blinked, nibbling the inside of her lip as she considered how to best explain. _No need to dance around the truth, is there? _she told herself._ He knows the truth. I'm only providing the proof. _

"There were twenty-one soldiers killed in the incident whose remains were presented to us for identification, right?"

"Yes," Booth said quietly. "Five aircrew on each Chinook: a pilot and copilot, a door-gunner on each side of the aircraft plus a door-gunner in the aft. Each Chinook carried a team of Special Forces soldiers."

Brennan nodded. "So one aircraft would have carried ten persons, and the other eleven, correct? For a total of twenty-one."

"Yes," he whispered.

"I've handled aircraft accidents before," she explained. "Numerous times. An airplane or helicopter crash causes very specific types of injuries to the people involved. If these two aircraft collided in midair, then all twenty-one sets of remains would show injuries indicative of an aircraft collision, correct?" She didn't wait for him to answer. "You would expect to see individuals with injuries consistent with being thrown around the inside of an aircraft, injured by uncontrolled physical contact with the aircraft's structural features when the two aircraft collided and/or impacted the ground. The individual remains might show damage by fire and, possibly though not in every case, low-velocity explosions due to rupture of fuel compartments."

Booth's brow furrowed. "But that's not what you found, I guess?"

"Well," she said. "In about half of the cases, yes, that's _exactly _what we found. But about half of the remains exhibit perimortem injuries causing a far greater degree of trauma, far more than would be possible from a simple aircraft accident. These traumas are consistent with high-energy, high-velocity explosions," she said. "Some of these bodies were blown up with a high-explosive of some kind."

"Like an RPG round," Booth said, leaning his head back and staring at the ceiling. "An RPG round is a high-explosive round, like a mortar or a bomb. When one of those explodes anywhere near a person, it almost vaporizes them."

"Yes," Brennan agreed. "The remains of the twenty-one men we have can be classified in three categories, based on the demonstrated affects of high-explosive material on human bodies. One group of individuals exhibits injuries consistent with being five to ten feet away from a high explosive material at the time of detonation. These individuals are almost completely disarticulated and very badly damaged skeletally. There's a second group whose injuries are consistent with being approximately fifteen to thirty feet away from the explosive material at the time of detonation. These remains show substantial disarticulation in certain portions of the body and significant skeletal damage due to explosion. A third group, the remains which were largely intact, with limited disarticulation except for that associated with low-velocity traumatic amputation of limbs…" She paused, worried about the affect of her clinical verbiage on her partner.

Booth's eyes glistened as his jaw turned rigid. "They lied," he growled. "They fucking lied."

Brennan took a short breath and looked at him, her metaphoric heart breaking for him—not just for the loss of his friends and comrades, but for the loss of his reverence for the institution of the Army—which she knew made the situation doubly wounding.

"Can you show that the distribution of these—?" _Remains. The remains of my men. My guys. My officers. My friends. _

He handed the bagged sliver of steel back to her and scratched his head. Suddenly, his eyes widened and he held his casted arm up, then let it back down again as he realized he couldn't snap his fingers. He raised his left hand and wagged his index finger in the air. "I…Bones, I can prove that the distribution of those injuries matches up to which guys were in which choppers."

She arched an eyebrow. "You _can?_" she asked. "We were able to show which remains came from which bag, which we assume means that remains bagged together were all found together, but—"

"No," Booth insisted. "I can do better than that." He stood up from the bed and walked over to her bag, reaching in and pulling out her lab notebook. "Here," he said, pushing it towards her and grabbing a pen with his casted hand. "Write this down."

"What?"

"When we went on air assault missions, we divided the detachment into sticks," he explained. Brennan shot him a strange look. "Umm, when you've got a load of paratroopers that are gonna jump out of an airplane, each planeload is called a 'stick.' Don't ask why, 'cause I don't know—it goes back to World War II. Anyway, as Green Berets, we were airborne and air assault, meaning we jumped out of airplanes with parachutes and rappelled down ropes from helicopters, right? Anyway, either way, when we grouped the guys up into teams that would be moved via helicopter, we called each of those chopper-borne groups a stick. When I was in the Rangers, we called 'em 'chalks' but for whatever reason, when I got to Bragg, this particular company used the term 'stick.' Anyway, when you were talking about the…" He chewed his lip a little at calling his men _remains. _"The way they were found, I remembered how the Alpha was divided up into two sticks, and who was in each stick—'cause it was almost always the same."

"That will do it, Booth," she said. "I mean, if you can tell me who was in each stick, then we can quickly show how the distribution of the injuries corresponds to the organization of the men into sticks. I'm confident that we can show that all the most severe injuries were sustained by men in the same stick."

"Oh God," he whispered as he felt himself get faint again. "Alright," he sighed. "You writing this down?"

She rubbed her left hand on his shin. "Yes—go ahead."

"Stick One," he said. He stared up at the ceiling as he rattled off the names. "Sivick, Lukas, Makovsky, Hornby, Bastone and Kennedy." He shook his head and sighed. "Stick Two—Torres, Swann, Hackett, Parnell and Dawson—and, me." He blinked, then looked down again, his sad, damp eyes meeting hers. "Except for that last mission."

Brennan flipped a couple of pages back in her notes. "I would have to check my more detailed notes, Booth," she said. "But I can say with a high degree of confidence that whatever aircraft was carrying Stick One was the one that was struck by the RPG, because—"

Booth gritted his teeth and whispered, "Because those guys got blown up. Torn up the worst."

"Yes," she said quietly. "The individuals in the other stick were not as badly…damaged."

"Fuck," he muttered.

"I'm sorry, Booth." Brennan's brow furrowed and she shook her head. "I thought you would be glad to know that we can prove your theory right."

"I am," he said evenly. "But…" He exhaled a long, slow breath. "Now I have to figure out how to pull this story together in a way that I can take it up the chain—well, actually, outside of the chain. My chain of command has threatened to fuck me up if I bring this forward again."

"What are you going to do, Booth?"

He closed his eyes for several seconds, then opened them again. "I'm going to blow the whistle, Bones."

* * *

><p><strong>AN****: **_Booth as military whistleblower..._

_Who saw that coming? And how's that going to work, exactly? And who knew the godless heathen _**dharmamonkey **_could give you so much Judeo-Christian content in one chapter? (Well, there was that one Buddhist reference for good measure, but hey.)_

_So, what do you think? Tell me. Please. Please, please, PLEASE—don't read and run._

_Tell me what you think about what happened in this chapter—I'm desperate to know what you think._

_Remember—I'm dying here, folks._


	28. Revelations

**Killing Two Birds**

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><p><strong>By:<strong> dharmamonkey  
><strong>Rated:<strong> M  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> _Hart Hanson owns _Bones_. But people like me who play in his sandbox give you all those delicious little moments that Hart and friends leave out. In this case, AU do-overs for that gap between Seasons 5 and 6 that wrought so much havoc for our heroes. That's why you read fanfic._

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><p><strong><span>AN:**

_Holy bejeebers! There's no jargon to speak of in this chapter, and no betas to shout-out this time. But it's probably worth pointing out that we're getting ever-closer to the end of this story, and I hope you folks have enjoyed the ride (even if it made you cry sometimes). Speaking of crying, there's a chance that the more sensitive among you might get a bit misty this go-around, so if you're so inclined to opthamalogic mistiness, you might consider equipping yourself with an appropriate quantity of facial tissue._

_S_o_, anyways—alright, without further ado, let's go back to Bagram._

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><p><strong>Chapter 28: Revelations<strong>

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><p>Booth sat on the bed, reclined against two pillows with his legs stretched out in front of him, one crossed over the other. His injured arm rested on the bed, and his healthy arm was tucked behind his head as he watched the Texas Rangers pitcher Cliff Lee square off against his San Francisco Giants counterpart Tim Lincecum. He scratched his head and turned to Brennan, who sat cross-legged with her MacBook on her lap.<p>

"Hey," he whispered, deliberately avoiding looking at whatever it was on the screen, knowing she didn't like being watched when she was writing.

"Hey, Booth," she whispered back. She looked up at the TV set just as Lincecum bunted the ball.

The announcer's low, steady pitch-count cadence peaked, causing Booth's head to swivel in time to see the Rangers catcher Bengie Molina jump up, yank off his mask and back up towards the wall behind home plate before catching the pop-up to retire Lincecum. Booth shook his head and lifted up the remote, clicking the mute button before a fast-food commercial started.

"Are you okay, Booth?" she asked. Brennan had seen Booth watch sporting events numerous times over the years and he was invariably a loud spectator, even in the privacy of his own home, shouting and screaming at the TV as he would wave his arms around or jump up in response to something happening on the screen. His downright subdued behavior that night spoke volumes about how preoccupied he was, and as she watched his facial muscles twitch and his eyes blink at the muted TV, she knew he was deep in thought. She reached her hand over and rubbed the top of his thigh. "It's going to be okay, Booth."

He nodded, turning to her with a faint, fleeting smile but said nothing.

As soon as the commercial break ended and they cut back to the game, Booth restored the sound with another click of the remote. He leaned his head back and sighed as Cliff Lee threw a strike that caught Andres Torres swinging. Brennan watched her partner out of the corner of her eye but said not a murmur as he watched the next pitch in silence. Booth's brow wavered as Lee presided over a comfortable 0-2 count. He took a deep breath as the camera zoomed in on Lee shaking his head twice in response to the catcher, Molina's, pitch call, then finally nodding at the third proposed pitch. Lee stepped back and wound up, then unleashed his next pitch, a hard fastball which drilled Torres for an automatic walk, advancing Edgar Renteria to second.

Brennan watched Booth nibble the inside of his lip as the next batter, Sanchez, quickly fell behind 0-2 in the count before ripping one foul. She drummed her fingers lightly on her laptop's keyboard as he leaned his head back again, rolling it to the side, facing away from her as he stared disinterestedly out the window. He turned back to the TV set as the announcer's voice swelled as Sanchez doubled to shallow left field, driving Renteria in for the score and sending Torres to third, finally putting the Giants on the board. Only two pitches later, the next Giants batter, Buster Posey, connected for a hit, bringing Torres in for another run and tying up the game.

Brennan wasn't much of a sports fan, but growing up in Chicago with a dad and a brother who watched baseball, she knew enough to know that the game's tempo was really picking up and she knew something was very wrong that Booth had watched the last ten minutes of the game without saying so much as a word.

"What's wrong, Booth?" she asked him.

He muted the game and carelessly tossed the remote onto the nightstand, where it landed with a loud clatter.

"Talk to me," she said quietly, skating her fingers over the soft curls of light brown hair that covered his thigh. "Please…"

He leaned his head back and swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he squeezed his eyes shut. "It's crazy," he whispered.

Brennan pursed her lips. "No," she said. "Whatever it is, I'm quite certain it's not crazy, Booth. What is it?"

He rubbed his eyebrows with the heel of his hand and sighed. "Sometimes I'm afraid to fall asleep," he said.

Booth thought of all the nights over the previous three weeks that he had woken up in a cold sweat, panting for breath, after dreaming of the crash. It wasn't always the same dream every night. Some nights, he would find himself dreaming of the moments before the pilot sounded his mayday call—the frustrating, puzzling, increasingly terrifying seconds during which he repeatedly tried calling out to one of the inbound Chinooks, but received no response. Other nights, he dreamed of the minutes he spent staring through his rifle's scope at the men in the teahouse, sometimes imagining he could see the dead journalist, Hannah Burley, walking into his field of vision, her wavy blond hair falling over her shoulders as she made her way from a shadow in the back of the teahouse towards the three Pashtun men who sat nearest the door. Yet other times he dreamed of the moments after the second crash, when the ceiling beams above him snapped and the building collapsed on top of him, his eyes, mouth and nose smothered with the fine dust of crumbled mud-brick as he cried out in desperation for someone to help him, his voice choked with the very same dust as his ears filled with the screams of men nearby dying, howling in agony as the flames of their burning aircraft licked at them while they slowly succumbed to the noxious fumes of burning fuel.

He shook his head, trying to chase away the vivid sensations and the creeping feeling of terror they wrought in their wake. "I know that sounds absolutely idiotic," he whispered, "but—"

"It does not," she insisted. "Not idiotic at all."

He looked down at her hand, resting on his thigh, and a slight smile rolled across his lips before fading again. "I'm afraid, you know, that when I close my eyes and there's nothing to look at, listen to or think about, the memories will come and—" He sighed. "And I'm afraid. Sometimes I feel like the memories themselves are, you know, grinding me up. I know it sounds crazy." He closed his eyes and shook his head in silent self-admonishment.

"It's not crazy," Brennan whispered, squeezing his thigh gently. "I know what you mean." She paused and looked away briefly before returning his gaze watch him rub his fingertips over the comforter. "Exactly what you mean, actually."

Booth lifted his head and looked at her in surprise. "What do you mean?"

She blinked and then, her eyes falling to see him bring his healthy left hand to cover hers as it rested on his thigh, she took a deep breath. "I had nightmares for years, Booth," she admitted in a heavy voice. "Night after night I'd have them. " She cocked her head and sighed. "After my first forensic case."

He stared at her. "Really?"

"Yes," Brennan said with a nod. "In the summer of 1999, I was a first-year doctoral student at Northwestern, and I landed a summer fellowship with the Archaeology of the American West Project co-sponsored by the Jeffersonian, the National Park Service and the University of Colorado..."

"1999?" Booth asked. "So you were—" He did the math in his head. "You were twenty-two years old and already at work on your doctorate?"

She smiled awkwardly. "I finished my bachelor's degree in two and a half years," she explained, "thanks to Advanced Placement classes in high school and my own work ethic. I entered college as a sophomore. And I completed my master's in a year. You knew that, Booth."

He shrugged. "I knew you were a brainiac there, Bones, but I guess I never really did the math."

"Well…" She flashed a half-grin then continued. "The purpose of the summer fellowship was to assist with the excavation of the Sand Creek Massacre site in southeastern Colorado." She observed the blank look on Booth's face. "The Sand Creek Massacre involved the slaughter of 150 Cheyenne and Arapaho Indian men, women and children by 700 members of a Colorado state militia on November 29, 1864. After decades of searching for the actual massacre site, a U.S. Senator from Colorado, Ben Nighthorse Campbell, himself a member of the Southern Cheyenne nation, pushed a law through Congress that, in 1998, directed the National Park Service to begin archaeological surveys to locate the precise location of the massacre site for the purposes of making it a national historic site."

"Wow, Bones," Booth said, cocking his head at the revelation.

"It was a really interesting experience—my first experience with a mass grave," Brennan said. "Of course, since then, I've excavated dozens of mass graves, most of them far more contemporary—including Guatemala, Rwanda, Bosnia, the Congo, Iraq—but the strategies for managing primary versus secondary graves are the same."

"Right," Booth said, wondering where she was going with this.

"So, anyway, I was working under the supervision of a professor from the University of Colorado—Dr. Gary Vorhies—who not only taught classes, both graduate and undergrad, and did fieldwork like this, but also served as the part-time forensic anthropologist for Boulder County, Colorado."

Booth reached over for the remote and turned off the muted TV set. Brennan nodded gratefully and continued.

"We had been working at the purported Sand Creek site—which, by the end of the summer we were finally able to validate as being the actual site of the 1864 massacre—when late one afternoon, Dr. Vorhies was contacted by the Boulder County Sheriff's Office to return to Boulder to assist in the investigation of a mysterious death. As his fellowship intern, he asked me if I wanted to come along." She turned to Booth and smiled vaguely. "I'd always wanted to do forensic anthropology, and this was my big chance. So, of course, I said yes."

"Of course," he said with a smile.

"So we drove the four hours back to Boulder and arrived after sundown. All we had been told at that point was that there had been a car fire in Boulder Canyon, about twenty minutes west of town, and that there were human remains inside the vehicle. Dr. Vorhies was called upon to do what forensic anthropologists always do in these cases: confirm identity and cause of death given remains with too little soft tissue left for normal methods of forensic pathology to be of any use."

"Was this your first hands-on, real-life experience in forensic anthropology?" Booth asked.

She nodded. "Yes—I had done lab work and field trips, but this was the real thing: being present and assisting in the assessment of actual human remains under circumstances where the answer was not known and was needed for real-life law enforcement purposes."

"What happened, Bones?"

"The car had been torched—completely destroyed by fire with the aid of a petroleum-based accelerant, later confirmed to be gasoline, which the car's interior had been doused with. The human remains were almost completely skeletonized, the overwhelming majority of the soft tissue and virtually all of the clothing having been consumed in the fire and the subsequent explosion. All we really had to work with were the bones, which is why BCSO—the Boulder County Sheriff's Office—had asked Dr. Vorhies to confirm that the cause of death was the fire and not some other injury."

Booth's brow furrowed as he considered the image of a young Brennan—just twenty-two years old at the time—tucking into a task as gruesome as this one surely was, based on his own experience dealing with fire-ravaged corpses.

"So we took the remains back to the Boulder County M.E.'s office and examined them. We found no other injuries which could have been cause of death—or which could have incapacitated the victim immediately prior to death. This individual arrived in the canyon in that car, alive and well, and died as a result of the fire or explosion. The local fire investigator confirmed that the car caught fire as a result of an ignition point inside of the car's cabin—the remnants of a disposable cigarette lighter that was found in the burned-out chassis immediately beside the decedent—and exploded a couple of minutes later, but it was not possible to conclude with absolute scientific certainty whether the individual was dead prior to the explosion. But for our purposes, it didn't matter."

"So..." Booth prompted her, though had a good idea what the conclusion was before she said it.

"It was a suicide," she said grimly. "A self-immolation."

"Damn," Booth muttered, shaking his head. "He killed himself by setting himself on fire in his car?" He gave a heavy sigh. "In all my years with the Bureau, I've seen people off themselves all kinds of creative ways, but I've never heard of someone dousing themselves and their car with gasoline and lighting themselves on fire."

"To be honest, I've never seen anything quite like it since then, either," she said. She took a deep, wavering breath. "BCSO was able to confirm the that car was registered to a local man, a forty year-old widower who worked as a meteorologist at NCAR—the National Center for Atmospheric Research—in Boulder. A comparison of the remains with dental records confirmed identity."

"And this experience gave you nightmares?" Booth asked. It didn't quite make sense to him that such an experience—awful though it must have been, especially for a young, budding anthropologist—would cause her to have recurrent nightmares.

She sighed and turned away, gazing absently out the window. "He had two elementary school-aged children," she said quietly. "A son and a daughter—aged ten and six, respectively." Booth's eyes widened as realization set in. "BCSO detectives searched his home and found in his home office a note to his sister, dated the day before his death, asking her to take care of his children after his passing."

It took a few seconds for Booth to process what she had said. Then, in an instant, he realized why this experience was so formative, and so jarring to her. Booth put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her closer to him but said nothing. He held her firm against his chest as he listened.

"This man, this suicide, he abandoned his children," she said, her voice cracking. "He abandoned his children—just gave up and left them behind," she repeated. Booth leaned in and kissed her softly on the temple.

"I'm so sorry, Bones," he whispered into her hair.

She shook her head. "The dream that I had was almost always the same, Booth," she explained. "I dreamt that I was a teenager, and I'd wake up on Christmas morning, walk down the stairs from my bedroom and the entire bottom floor of my parents house would be on fire. The living room and the Christmas tree would be completely consumed in flames. The tree would be there, in the corner of the room, by the window, near the fireplace. It was on fire, popping and crackling the way wood does when it burns. The presents under the tree would be burning, too, and I could see the wrapping paper blackening and wilting."

Booth sighed, his breath warm on her scalp. "God, Bones," he whispered. "That's terrible."

She nodded slowly. "I'd hear in the distance the sound of voices screaming and shouting, and a woman's voice crying out as if in anguish—my mother's voice, as best I could tell, though I could never really be sure." She fell silent for a moment, then added, "The more years that passed, the harder it was to remember what her voice sounded like."

Booth held her close to his chest, bringing his arm up and gently stroking her hair. "Bones…"

She closed her eyes and tried to relax into his soothing touch as she felt her heart race a little at remembering the dream. "I had this dream at least two or three times a week for eight years," she explained. "From 1999 until the spring of 2007."

He cupped his palm on the top of her head as he kissed her temple again. He glanced down at his lap as the realization swept over him. "So you're saying that you last had this dream when—?"

Brennan nodded again. "Yes," she whispered. "The last time I had that dream was the night before we went to McVicker's farm." _The night before we learned that my mother had been murdered, _she added silently, unable in that moment to utter the words_._

Booth raised his chin and closed his eyes in solemn acknowledgment. "God, Bones," he murmured. "I had no idea." Several moments of silence hung between them as he gently stroked her hair, uncertain whether he was doing so to comfort her or to comfort himself.

"I told you, Booth," she said, finally breaking the silence as she turned her head to the side so she could meet his eyes. He let his hand fall once more to his lap. "You aren't alone." She reached her hand across her lap and clasped his, noting the beat of his pulse beneath her fingers. "While you are the only one left from your unit," she said, "you are not alone. You aren't the only one who has struggled with these kinds of things—painful memories, or even regret." Brennan hung on the last syllable of that word as she thought about that night at the Hoover, and thought of all the consequences that ensued therefrom. "I've struggled with those. I still struggle sometimes, Booth." She blinked at the gravity of her admission, then shrugged it off as she shifted onto her side so she could face him. "You are not alone in struggling, and you're not alone in _this_ struggle. You'll never have to face this alone, Booth." Looking up at him, she asked, "You know that, right?"

Booth leaned his head back and swallowed. "But I'm broken, Bones," he mumbled. "I'm not sure I can—"

Brennan raised her hand and stroked her thumb along the short fuzzy hair over his temple. She traced her forefinger over the fading inch-long pink scar that followed the hairline over his right ear. "You're not broken," she said, pursing her lips carefully as she watched for a flicker in his sad, vulnerable brown eyes. "You're not broken—you're wounded, Booth. You're _wounded_. And you will heal." She held the pad of her index finger over the pink scar. "You're _already_ healing."

Booth's brow knit low over his eyes as he sucked in a deep breath. "I—" He blinked a couple of times as he saw her pursed lips soften into a gentle smile, her forehead smooth beneath her silky auburn bangs. "I want to heal," he said to her, turning his head slightly so he could feel her touch more firmly against his temple. "I just sometimes feel so—I don't know…" His low, uneven voice trailed off. "I don't want to let you down, Bones."

Brennan raised her brows in surprise. "Let me down?" He nodded with an eyebrow arched in uncertainty. Her hand dropped to his knee. "No, Booth," she whispered. "Do you have any idea how proud I am of you right now?" she asked. She rubbed her palm over his knee, brushing her thumb with a feather-light touch against the soft brown curls that covered his shin. "You're showing remarkable strength and courage, Booth. Every day."

He shook his head. "I don't feel very strong right now," he confessed, his voice scarcely more than a murmur. Brennan's fingertips ghosted over the side of his calf, touching only the hair, never making contact with his warm skin. He watched her hand's caress and swallowed.

"You're the strongest man I have ever met," she said. She thought of the Bible verse she had studied that afternoon. "Your strength, your faith—I admire you for them, Booth."

"Really?" he gulped.

Brennan smiled and gave his calf a gentle squeeze. "Yes," she said. She recalled the words of the fifty-third chapter of Isaiah: _He was despised and rejected—a man of sorrows, acquainted with deepest grief. We turned our backs on him and looked the other way. He was despised, and we did not care. _"Do you know how much I admire the strength you've shown amid all of this, Booth? Do you have any idea?"

Booth's cheeks flushed as a smile tickled the corners of his mouth. "Umm…really?"

She stilled her hand and looked at him, her pale gray eyes twinkling as she gazed into his warm brown ones. "Enough so that I've taken to studying the Bible," she said, a closed-mouthed smile flashing across her lips.

Booth's eyes widened a little at her revelation. "Really?" he asked. After a couple of seconds, the gravity of her admission sank in and his face broke into a grin. "Are you serious?"

"Every day," she said. "Every day for the last three weeks, I have been studying verses from the Old Testament."

He narrowed his eyes. "I can't believe it, Bones," he laughed, amused that the woman who basically said that Jesus was a zombie would now be reading the Bible. The smile faded from his lips. "But why?"

"Well," Brennan shrugged, smiling faintly and glancing out the window before turning to him again. "Because I want to try and understand the strength you draw from your religious beliefs. To understand you better—so I can help you be strong in the way that only you can be."

For several seconds, Booth felt as if he was going to faint, then a warm sensation began to spread through his chest. "Bones," he whispered as he reached up and pulled her face to his. "Bones…" He angled his head and brushed his lips against hers as he felt her hot breath on his cheek, covering her mouth with his. She murmured into his kiss as her lips parted and his tongue slid across the barrier between them to meet his. Her mouth grasped at his as she rolled onto her knees and straddled him. "Oh, God," he muttered as their lips parted, each one breathing in pants. "God, I love you. I love you so much."

"I know," she whispered, pulling her spaghetti-strap camisole over her head and tossing it to the side where it landed on the carpet in front of the window. Booth's hands—both of them—immediately flew up to her bare breasts, and he dragged the calloused thumb of his casted right hand over her nipple as the other hand eagerly palmed her other breast, squeezing it lightly before he began to pinch her right nipple between his left thumb and forefinger. "Oh, fuck," she hissed as she felt a hot, wet pulse between her legs. "Booth…"

A low, long hum sounded from deep in his throat as his hands worked her nipples. "You're amazing," he murmured. "Absolutely incredible." He felt a raw tingle at the base of his spine surge down his legs and up his back, triggering a shiver that made him roll his shoulder at the sensation. She leaned forward and their mouths crashed together again, her tongue slipping again between his teeth to plunder his mouth. He felt her fingers curl over the waistband of his boxers and he hardened quickly as she tugged at them, her mouth finally pulling away from his as she rolled off of him so she could divest him of his shorts.

"I love you, Booth," she whispered as she carefully slid his boxers off his hips. He grunted softly as he felt her fingertips skate down the tops of his thighs, chasing his shorts as they slid over his knees and down his shins. "You're everything to me," she said, her eyes narrowing at her own words as she realized all of the rationalist objectivity that she had cultivated over the years had finally evaporated, at least insofar as it applied to the man whose skin burned hot under her fingers and whose muscles tensed at her touch. "Everything," she murmured, certain at that moment that she had never really been able to be fully rational or wholly objective when it came to the man before her. "Everything." A warm calm settled over her and a smile danced across her lips when she felt herself resign the last remnant of cool, measured reason as the last articles of her clothing and his fell to the floor at the side of their shared bed.

"You've been my everything," he whispered into her ear with a breathy gasp as she lowered herself onto him, "for a long, long time." He arched into her and rolled his head back into the pillow as he sucked a hard, fast breath between his teeth as his eyes clenched shut at the mind-numbing ecstasy of being buried hilt-deep into her silky, wet warmth. "For the longest time," he muttered as he jerked up into her. "Almost since the beginning," he admitted, his lips forming an _"o"_ as a long, soft breath passed from them when she began to rock hard, drawing him deeply into her before sliding back again, leaving him yearning breathlessly in the fractions of a second before she once again swallowed him up into her. "Everything," he said again.

"Everything…"

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><p><strong>AN****: **_Well, now. Hmmm. For those who wanted another taste of mmm-mmm-mmm, there you go. Now you know you're in trouble, though, because we're about to crest the hill and hurtle down into a few more very heavy chapters before this piece wraps up. (A minor spoilerish hint there, but you love it. You might not admit it, but you love it.)_

_If part of this looked familiar and you were wondering if you were going crazy, a portion of this chapter appeared in a modified form in chapter 39 of my debut fanfic, "Everything Happens Eventually." (You still might be going crazy, but at least your memory is pretty sound.)_

_What do you think? Tell me. Please. Please, please, PLEASE—don't read and run._

_Tell me what you think about what happened in this chapter. I pour my heart and soul into each of these chapters—especially one like this—and I'm desperate to know what you think._

_So please, tell me what you think..._

_Remember—I'm dying here, folks._

_** **Editorial note**: The Boulder Canyon self-immolation is based on a real incident that occurred in fall 1992 or spring 1993 (I forget). My physical anthropology professor was the Boulder County forensic anthropologist. He came into class on the following Monday and recounted, his voice choked and tears in his eyes, how he had determined that the incident was a suicide. All of us were deeply moved by the story. It still moves me 20 years later. _


	29. Taking What Is Given

**Killing Two Birds**

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><p><strong>By:<strong> dharmamonkey  
><strong>Rated:<strong> M  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> _Hart Hanson owns _Bones_. But people like me who play in his sandbox give you all those delicious little moments that Hart and friends leave out. In this case, AU do-overs for that gap between Seasons 5 and 6 that wrought so much havoc for our heroes. That's why you read fanfic._

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><p><strong><span>AN:**

1) **Acronyms/terminology**: _A reviewer noted that I'm using some terminology the meaning of which may not be immediately evident. Here are some you'll want to take note of because they show up in this chapter:_

**DFAC: **_Dining facility_

**NCS: **_Nerve conduction study, method whereby the electrical connectivity of a nerve or group of nerve is tested. Not unlike an electrical continuity check you might run on an electric circuit in your home or business._

**EMG: **_Electromyography. An electromyograph detects the electrical potential generated by muscle cells when these cells are electrically or neurologically activated. Another way to test the way motor nerves communicate with muscle tissue._

**Pop Warner: **_For my non-US readers, this is a type of youth league for American football. Booth uses the term metaphorically._

**NSAID:** _Non-steriodal anti-inflammatory drug—e.g. aspirin, ibuprofen (Advil), naproxen sodium (Aleve), acetaminophen (Tylenol)._

**ANA:** _Afghan National Army_

**LZ: **_Landing zone for helicopter._

2) **Shout-out to my HHB (hugely helpful beta): **_The supremely awesome, tough-as-nails, ass-kicking lady cop _**Jasper777 **_(aka "Your1Backup" on Twitter) who helped me by looking over some of the medical details as well as, ahem, other details. I owe her a couple of venti coffees or a round of beers at this point for the help she's given me throughout the writing of K2B. Someday we'll meet and I am quite certain she's gonna collect._

3) **Reader content alert****:** _There might be a little bit of adult content ahead. If you aren't an adult or don't like reading about adults engaged in adult activities, you might want to skip the end of the chapter. _

_So, anyways—alright, without further ado, let's go back to Bagram._

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><p><strong>Chapter 29: Taking What Is Given<strong>

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><p>As the days passed, Booth's and Brennan's shared life fell into a regular rhythm.<p>

Each morning, they would wake up, shower, talk to Parker on Skype, then Booth would drive Brennan and Wendell to the DFAC for a quick breakfast before dropping them off at the hangar. He would make his way back to Brennan's dormitory, quietly slip into her room and conference with Gordon Wyatt for an hour. In an effort to clear his head and energize his body, Booth would go for a five-mile run around the base, then return once more to the room, shower again before making his way back to the hangar to take Brennan and Wendell over to the DFAC for lunch. Then he would spend the next couple of hours crafting a letter to the surviving parents, spouse, fiancée or girlfriend of one of his fallen Green Beret comrades. After finishing the letter, emailing it over to Brennan so it could be printed out at the hangar and signed by Wendell on Booth's behalf, Booth would drive over to the McDonald's on base for a cup of coffee and one of those hot apple pies—less because he needed the coffee or the admittedly sub-standard pie and more because it got him out of the dorm room—and hang out there for a while before making his way back to the hangar to pick up Brennan and Wendell for dinner.

In the ten days that followed the day when it seemed that Booth had finally crested a hill of sorts—the day of his appointment with Dr. Cho and his telephone call with Hank Luttrell, the day his on-again/off-again long term memory finally coughed up the missing details of the seconds before the Chinooks crashed and his conversation with Brennan that night when he discovered that she had the physical evidence to substantiate what he knew in his heart to be true about the events that led to the lethal crash—Brennan's work in the hangar continued, her work likewise following a consistent rhythm.

Each day, another couple of men from Alpha 3623 or the 160th SOAR would be positively identified, and each afternoon, Booth went into the hangar to pay his last respects before the newly-identified remains, shrouded in a zipped-up vinyl body bag, were placed into an aluminum transfer case furnished by the 54th Quartermaster Company and readied for their return home via Dover Air Force Base. As the days ticked by, the work of identifying the remaining men became easier from the standpoint of assigning identity to the remains—if for no other reason than the list of possibilities narrowed with each man whose body had been positively ID'd and sent home—but the process of reassembling the broken bodies into something resembling a whole person became more difficult as Brennan and Wendell began to work with the most badly-damaged remains.

In those ten days, more and more of the men were sent home until only one man remained. In those same ten days, ten more letters went out to the families of Booth's comrades, until there was only one letter left to send.

On the tenth day, Brennan woke up to find Booth next to her in bed, his eyes open and alert as he sat there, his back propped up against two pillows as he drummed the forefingers of his left hand on the hard black fiberglass of his cast. His breathing was slow and even while he stared out the window at the pale orange glow of the Afghan dawn as it slowly warmed the twilight sky. She watched him as his eyes darted around, his eyelashes fluttering with each blink as he thought about whatever it was that was consuming his attentions that morning. Brennan resisted the impulse to ask him what he was thinking about, deciding instead just to let him think, but reached over with a quiet hum in her throat and placed her hand on his left wrist, her fingers spreading across his large, veiny hand in a fanlike shape before curling around and giving his hand a light squeeze.

"Hey," he whispered, turning his head slowly to meet her eyes, turning his wrist and folding his thumb over her fingers as he brought his hand—and hers—to his lips and kissed her fingers.

"Hey," she sighed back, a faint smile crossing her mouth as he held her hand against his humming lips.

* * *

><p>Booth sat on the exam table, his booted feet bumping against the metal side of the table as he waited impatiently, his eyebrow arched and his forehead crinkled with uncertainty as Dr. Cho readied the oscillating cast-cutter. He'd taken off his ACU jacket and sat wearing just his sand-colored T-shirt. He brought his hand up and thumbed his St. Christopher medal, bringing it to his lips and kissing it before crossing himself.<p>

"It's going to be fine, Booth," Brennan said from her seat in the corner of the room. Cho's head swiveled around to stare at her for a moment before he shook his head and returned his attention to preparing the saw.

Booth shrugged and mumbled something inaudible. Cho looked up and shot his patient a curious look. "Your chart indicates you broke a couple of bones in your hand a few years ago," he said. "We will be using the same procedure to remove this cast as was used the last time you had a cast removed."

"Umm," Booth murmured with an awkward grin, his eyes meeting Cho's briefly before he turned away with a quiet snicker, remembering how he had sat on a bench outside the men's locker room at the Potomac Ice Rink with a small handsaw removing his cast before the Fed Cases' game against the state police team.

Cho rolled his eyes and shook his head at the seasoned soldier who sat on the exam table swinging his feet like a child. "Why am I not surprised, Sergeant Major?" he asked with a smile, handing Booth a pair of safety glasses.

Booth accepted the glasses with a deeply furrowed brow. "What are these for?" he asked, looking at Cho. Brennan smirked, quickly returning her eyes to the latest issue of the _Journal of Forensic Science. _She shrugged to herself as she wondered why her partner dumbed himself down this way in front of the orthopedic surgeon. She understood why sometimes, in the context of a witness or suspect interview, he would do that—in order to disarm the other party, metaphorically speaking—but it made no sense to her in the present context.

"It's to keep any errant fiberglass particulate out of your eyes," Cho explained. "On the off-chance that the cast-cutter's vacuum fails to contain it all. Safety first, Sergeant Major." He lifted his surgical mask over his nose and mouth, then slid his safety glasses over his eyes. "Sergeant Major," he said in a mildly chastising tone of voice, raising his eyebrows expectantly as Booth nodded, put the safety glasses on and took a deep breath. Cho turned on the oscillating cast-cutter, which began to hum as he began cutting from the top of the cast, about two inches below Booth's armpit.

Cho cut all the way through the cast along the top of Booth's arm, from bicep to knuckles, then flipped Booth's arm over and repeated the process along the underside. He took what looked to Booth like a pair of pliers and spread the two halves apart, revealing the soft cotton underneath, then used a pair of scissors to cut through the cotton before peeling away the cast.

"Oh, gross," Booth muttered as Cho pulled away the cast material. The skin on Booth's arm was dry and scaly, resembling a bad sunburn after a week's time, with multiple layers of peeling skin. Brennan stood up from her chair and walked over as Booth lifted his arm to pull the safety glasses off his face. "Ouch," he said with a wince when he tried to fully extend his arm to drop the glasses on the exam table.

"You haven't moved your arm in over a month," Cho explained, ignoring the scowl on his patient's face. "And it's not unusual for the skin to be a bit ripe under there, especially if you've been exercising and sweating under the cast." He remembered from previous appointments Booth had been physically active, jogging and exercising despite the cast. "But that's all temporary, of course."

"It does smell a bit, Booth," Brennan observed with a faint smile.

"Thanks, Bones," Booth growled as he bent and extended his arm a couple of times, wiggling his fingers tentatively as he turned his wrist. He didn't make a sound when he turned his wrist, but Brennan could tell from the expression on his face that the movement was far from comfortable for him.

Cho reached for Booth's arm and drew his finger along the four-inch scar that ran along the middle of his forearm. "The incision site seems to have healed up quite nicely."

Brennan noted the brief knitting of Booth's brow. "There are over-the-counter preparations, Booth, that will minimize the appearance of scars over time," she said. "Onion extract solutions have been clinically shown to reduce collagen formation, which minimizes the formation of scar tissue and makes the wound scar less noticeable over time."

Booth held both of his arms out in front of him and frowned at seeing how the injured one was slightly, though noticeably, smaller than the other. He turned up his nose at the sight of the scaly, peeling, grayish skin.

Cho cleared his throat. "The muscles of your hand and arm have been weakened by disuse," he explained, "and your wrist and elbow joints will be tight and sore for the first few weeks. I'm going to recommend some exercises you can do to re-establish strength in your hand, arm and joints. I'm also going to refer you to a physical therapist to—"

Booth glanced over to his partner and back to the doctor. "So when do I get the NCS and EMG tests?" he asked, nodding and flashing his eyebrows impatiently. "Sir."

Cho laughed and shook his head. "Relax, Sergeant Major," he said with another roll of his eyes. "The neurologist, Dr. Ferran, will be along in a few minutes to perform the two tests. In the meantime…" Cho retrieved his prescription pad from his lab coat. "I'm writing you a script for ten daily physical therapy sessions, Sergeant Major, so we can build that arm, wrist and elbow function back up again." He turned to his file and pulled out a piece of paper. "Here are some instructions on how to care for your skin after cast removal," he said, raising his glance to make eye contact with Brennan, who he presumed was the best chance at securing the patient's compliance. "So Dr. Ferran is going to come in and perform the NCS and EMG tests, which should take forty-five to ninety minutes. I will need to see you back here in a couple of days to go over the test results."

Booth swallowed nervously. "Yes, sir."

A few minutes later, Dr. (Major) Ferran came in, introduced himself to Booth and Brennan, then quickly began to set up the equipment for the nerve conduction and electromyography tests.

"Do you have an allergy to iodine?" he asked as he tore open a sterile pouch and pulled out a cotton pad moistened with yellow liquid, hesitating as he waited for Booth's answer.

"No, sir," Booth replied.

"Good," Ferran said. "Because if you did, the scaly skin you've got here would be the least of your problems." Booth watched in curiosity as the doctor swabbed his forearm down with the iodine-soaked wipe and placed a group of electrodes in various locations on his right forearm.

"The NCS test that I'll be performing today is actually a group of tests, Sergeant Major," Ferran explained. "We'll begin with a Motor NCS, during which I will be electrically stimulating your ulnar nerve and recording the time it takes for the electrical impulse to travel from the stimulation to the recording site."

Booth arched an eyebrow and briefly met Brennan's eyes. She nodded with a smile but remained silent.

"This value," Ferran continued, "is called the latency and is measured in milliseconds. The magnitude of the response—called the amplitude and measured in millivolts—will also be measured. By stimulating your nerve in different locations along the nerve, we can measure the Nerve Conduction Velocity—the NCV, which basically is the speed of response—across different segments of the nerve path. I'll take the distance between the different stimulating electrodes and the difference in latencies and use the results to quantify the level of nerve function."

"Okay," Booth said, his voice wavering a little as the doctor applied the first dose of current. "Oh, wow," he said.

"Does it hurt?" Brennan asked, knowing that it did not, but wanting to hear him say it, as if having him say so aloud would perhaps reduce his anxiety level.

"No," Booth admitted. "It doesn't really hurt…it just feels…um…kind of weird and tingly, like static electricity or getting a tiny shock." Brennan smiled.

Ferran narrowed his eyes as he watched the senior NCO interact with the scientist-consultant. "Although I will need to go through the data in some detail," he said, "I'm seeing some slowing of the NCV in your ulnar nerve along a span between the mid-arm and your wrist."

"What does that mean?" Booth asked, biting the inside of his lip as another pulse of current was applied to his arm. A few moments passed before the doctor answered.

"It means there's something wrong with your ulnar nerve," Ferran said simply. "Either a loss of the myelin or a compression."

"My-what?"

"Myelin," Brennan interjected. "It's the—"

Ferran interrupted her. "Myelin is a dielectric material that functions like electrical insulation for your nerves. If a nerve's myelin sheath is damaged, it can cause impaired function—essentially, a short circuit—in much the same way you'd see in a piece of electronics if the insulation on a wire is damaged."

"I didn't feel the tingly stuff or the numbness right after I got injured," Booth pointed out. "It was after a few days that I first started feeling it. Does that mean that maybe the mye-whatever isn't the problem, sir?"

Ferran pressed his lips together firmly as he considered the question. "That does suggest that compression is the more likely scenario, since the probable cause of any demyelination in your case would be either from the injury itself or..." Ferran's voice trailed off as he didn't want to suggest to a patient that another doctor might have nicked a nerve during a surgical procedure. "A gradual demyelination is not consistent with the circumstances here. In any case, if what you're saying is there was delayed onset of symptoms, that's more suggestive of an inflammatory response and a resulting compression. I'll have to look at the data more closely, of course." He reached over and began removing the electrodes from Booth's forearm. "Let's go ahead and do the EMG test now. This one may be a bit more uncomfortable, Sergeant Major."

Ferran handed Booth a small foam, digital-camo ball emblazoned with the slogan _Army of One. _"God, what a stupid recruiting campaign that was," Booth muttered as he squeezed the ball a couple of times, his jaw tightening at how uncomfortable it was to make a simple fist. He didn't remember his hand being that painful or stiff after removing the cast during the Pete Carlson case.

Booth took a breath and looked over at Brennan again. "It's going to be okay, Booth," she said, smiling warmly as she walked over and put her hand on his shoulder. _You've endured far worse,_ she added silently. "The needles will probably be the worst part."

Booth watched, his forehead creased with trepidation as Ferran applied a couple of electrodes in different locations than he'd used for the prior test, then pulled out a needle with a wire coming out of the back. He grunted quietly as the needle was inserted into his forearm.

"I'm sorry," Ferran apologized. "Your skin is particularly sensitive now, so this might be more uncomfortable than it would be otherwise. Try to relax, Sergeant Major." Booth heard a crackly sound come out of the recording unit and nervously looked at Ferran. "Muscles at rest emit a certain amount and type of electrical signal, which is what you're hearing and what I'm recording here…" The neurologist pointed to the wavelike patterns on the computer display.

He instructed Booth to contract his muscles in a smooth motion and make a fist, which Booth did, his forehead creasing again as he heard another round of crackling. "Good," Ferran said. He moved the needle electrode to another location and asked Booth to make another first, to slowly close his hand around the foam ball before opening it again, and then to tense his entire arm, each time measuring and recording the electrical emissions Booth's muscles made.

Each time Ferran applied the needle electrode, piercing the skin and inserting the thin needle into the muscles of the forearm, Booth sucked in a breath through his teeth and let it out through his nose.

"You okay there, Sergeant Major?" Ferran asked, pulling his hand away from the needle electrode as he awaited the response.

Booth rolled his jaw to the side and pursed his lips. "It's a bit uncomfortable," he admitted. "But this is nothing. I've been tortured, Major." He paused. "More than once, actually. This—this kind of thing, sir—is Pop Warner compared to that."

Ferran noted the hard expression on Booth's face, blinked, then nodded before resuming the test. He knew from the patient's chart that he had been tortured as a POW during the Gulf War in 1990, but hadn't noted any other instances of such treatment in the chart. With a slight, silent shrug, he dismissed the thought. It never ceased to amaze him the quantum of suffering that so many of his patients had endured. "Ready to continue, Sergeant Major?" Booth nodded.

After about a half hour, the EMG testing was complete, and Ferran removed the electrodes from Booth's arm.

"So what's the diagnosis, doc?" Booth asked. "I mean, sir."

Ferran smiled. "Preliminarily, I'd say that you have a compressed ulnar nerve. I want to look through the test results in greater detail and talk to your orthopedist, Dr. Cho, before coming to a final conclusion, but the data seems to point towards compression and away from demyelination, a partially severed nerve or any sort of generalized neuropathy."

Booth's head swiveled as he sought out Brennan's eyes. "What does that mean?" he asked her.

"Sounds like our suspicion was correct, Booth, and you have a compressed nerve," Brennan said as she stood up from her chair in the corner. "Dr. Ferran, if you determine that Booth does, in fact, have compression of the ulnar nerve, what treatment will you suggest, considering that he has been treated with NSAIDs, oral prednisone and cortisone injections over the last month?"

"Surgery is going to be the most likely course of treatment from this point forward," Ferran said, "assuming that what we have here is a nerve compression, which I think is probable but, as I told the Sergeant Major, I want to study the data more carefully before making a definitive statement."

Brennan rubbed Booth's left shoulder. "Would that surgery be done here at Bagram?" she asked.

Ferran continued putting away the testing equipment as he tried to suppress a smile. "No," he said. "Not because we couldn't carry out the surgery here," he explained, "but rather because the full complement of rehabilitative services is not available here." He turned to Booth. "If that's what the next step is, Sergeant Major, then we'll be sending you back stateside for treatment."

A smile broke across Booth's face.

"Don't look so sad about that prospect, Sergeant Major," Ferran quipped.

Booth cleared his throat. "Sorry, sir," he coughed. "It's just—well, after all of this, I'd really like to see my son, and if getting sent home for surgery gets me closer to my boy, then that's good news in my book, sir."

Ferran stood up and clapped Booth on the right bicep. "I understand completely," he said. "_Completely. _ I'm a reservist myself." Booth's eyebrows flew up in surprise. "This is my second deployment in the last three years. I've got twin sixteen year-old sons at home, and I can't wait until this deployment is over so I can go back to them." Ferran smiled at the man sitting on the table in front of him. "Like you, Sergeant Major, I have a whole 'nother life back home, and like you, I want to get back to it as soon as I can."

Booth's brow furrowed as a thought occurred to him. "Are you, ummm..." He brought his right hand up and rubbed the back of his head, a faint smile crossing his face as he realized he could finally use both hands again. "Are you in a position to influence which Army hospital I get sent to? For the surgery, I mean."

Ferran's eyes narrowed and he remembered the patient summary in the chart. "I'm going to hazard a guess, Sergeant Major, that you want to go to Walter Reed?"

Booth's eyes lit up. "Yes, sir," he said. "My son lives with his mother in D.C. That's where we…" His voice trailed off as he thought about returning home and finally being able to start a life with Brennan there. He felt Brennan drag her thumb over his shoulder blade and he bit the inside of his lip to suppress a grin. "My son's mom and I both live in D.C., so Walter Reed would be perfect."

"Well," Ferran said. "If, after I go over the test data in detail, I conclude that you do have a compressed nerve, and if surgery is indicated, then I will probably recommend that you be sent to Walter Reed Army Medical Center for surgery and rehabilitation." Ferran winked. "That is, _if _the test results prove in the details to support my preliminary findings_, _but I can't promise my recommendation will be followed. That said, there's a good chance we can make that happen for you, Sergeant Major."

Booth turned around and looked at Brennan, then back at Ferran. "That'd be great, doc," he said. "I mean, sir. That would be great, sir."

Ferran laughed as he tucked Booth's chart under his arm and turned the door handle. "Whatever," he said. "I'll see you in a couple of days to go over the test results and we'll go from there."

"Yes, sir," Booth said, no longer making any attempt to suppress his toothy grin. As soon as Ferran closed the door behind him, Booth turned and kissed Brennan on the cheek. "I'm gonna get to go home, Bones," he whispered.

* * *

><p>That night, Booth sat on the bed, wearing only a pair of boxers and watching a rebroadcast of the Red WingsCapitals game played the night before, U.S. time. He could hear Brennan in the bathroom, brushing her teeth, and couldn't help but smile at the domesticity of it. He wiggled his fingers around the _Army of One _foam ball and clenched his fingers into a light fist. She emerged from the bathroom just as a Red Wings power play began. He picked up the remote, clicked off the TV, and set the remote on the nightstand.

"You've been picking," she said to him, raising her chin to look at the skin on his newly-uncasted arm. "I can tell." She sat down on the bed next to him and placed her hand on his knee.

"Aw, come on," Booth said, rolling his eyes. "It's like peeling a sunburn."

"Which you also shouldn't do," she retorted. "The dead skin will come off in its own time, Booth, but you should give the new skin time to grow and strengthen with the protection of the dead skin layer—"

"Why are we talking about this, Bones?" he said, leaning over to kiss her cheek. "It's not very good pillow-talk—you know, dead skin and stuff."

Brennan sighed. "Fine," she said. "Just—please don't mess with it. You'll undermine the healing process. I know it looks a bit unsightly at the moment but it'll be fine in a week if you just let things take their course and follow the doctor's instructions."

Booth sighed in mild annoyance and flexed his right fist a couple of times around the _Army of One _ball.

"Aren't you excited?" he asked her, setting the ball on the nightstand next to the remote.

"About the prospect of you getting sent home to Washington for further treatment?" she asked. "Yes, of course." She rolled onto her side and snaked her arm over his belly, pausing to rim his navel with her thumb. "It's better than the alternatives from the standpoint of you seeing Parker, getting to live at home during treatment and rehabilitation for your arm, being close to our friends again and, well, hopefully being able to find you a local therapist for your PTSD symptoms."

Booth laughed. "Well, there's all that," he said. "But I was referring to this." He raised his right hand and wiggled his thumb and forefingers as he waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Brennan cocked her head. "Yes, you have your hand back," she said, nonplussed at the obviousness of it. Then her cheeks flushed slightly as the realization dawned on her. "Oh, then there's that—"

"Yes," he grinned. "_That._" He rolled onto his side and brought his right hand to her face, stroking her cheek with his index finger before cupping her jaw. "Two hands, baby," he said with a soft laugh. "I can finally touch you with two hands."

Brennan smiled and opened her mouth to say something but was cut off by Booth's fervent kiss as he quickly moved to kneel between her legs. His right hand slid from her jaw and he pressed his hand against the mattress as he supported his weight on his hands. He winced as he leaned onto his right arm, unable to fully extend his elbow and lean onto his hand. He sucked a breath in through his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to chase away the pain with a roll of his shoulder, leaning forward to kiss her, his lips brushing across hers before a raw, dense pulse of pain shot through his arm and he wobbled, his right wrist and elbow unable to support its half of his weight.

"Booth," she whispered, frowning at his pain.

"Damn it," he cursed, falling back onto his haunches and shaking his arm out with a hiss.

"It's too soon," she said. "For that, I mean—"

Booth's eyes glistened as his lips quivered. "This fucking sucks," he growled. "I want to—"

_He lay on his bunk with his head resting on his interlaced fingers, his sweat-soaked T-shirt clinging to his chest like a second skin. The oppressive heat of the southern Afghan summer invaded every pore of his life, whether he was on foot patrol, on the firing range training would-be ANA sharpshooters, sitting in a Chinook awaiting insertion into a hot LZ, or sitting in the barracks. He hated the heat. It reminded him how far away from home he really was, and—by extension—how brilliant a job he'd done at fucking everything up. He leaned his head back and swallowed, thinking back to the cool, damp evening on the steps of the Hoover when it all seemed to fall apart. He remembered the look in her pale gray eyes, and the way his heart seemed to tremble as he summoned up the courage to confess his desire to take a chance at making something amazing with her, and the bitter ache he felt when she had pushed him away. He closed his eyes and sighed. He wondered in that moment if he would ever be able to be to her what he wanted to be, and if he would ever be where he wanted to be, nestled between her legs, making sweet, beautiful love to her the way he had dreamed of night after night since the night he first tasted her on his lips._

He looked down at her as he sat on his haunches between her calves, his shoulders slumped in disappointment. He brought his right hand up and wiped the dampness from his eyes with his thumb.

"It's okay, Booth," she said. "I know you want to…" Her voice trailed off. It had been four weeks since they had first made love, and they had made love so many times since that very first night in her bed she was quite sure she wouldn't be able to count them all. Brennan knew that he wanted desperately to make love in the male superior position—and she wanted that, too, not only because he wanted it, but because a part of her that she didn't exactly understand wanted to feel him cover her completely with his body, to see his passion-darkened eyes looking down on her as he moved inside of her—but she knew it was too soon.

"I'm sorry," he said sullenly. "I just—it's…"

"It's okay," she said again. "Come here," she whispered, patting the mattress next to her. "Please."

Booth sighed in frustration and moved over to take his place next to her, loosely crossing his legs Indian-style. A smile flashed across his lips as he realized it no longer mattered as much what side of her he sat on, because he could at least touch her, caress her face and skin, with either hand. But as quickly as it appeared, his smile faded again. "I'm sorry, Bones," he whispered, rolling his head to the side and nuzzling into the soft skin of her shoulder. "I just…" He shook his head. "It sounds stupid, but I was—I really wanted to be all back to normal after getting the cast off but…" He brushed his lips across the top of her shoulder. "I just want to be normal again, Bones." He turned his eyes and looked away. "I want to be the man I was before—you know, before all this."

His words hit her like a bludgeon as she realized how deeply and thoroughly wounded he truly was by what had happened to him, both physically and otherwise. Brennan realized then that even the one area of his life—their life together, really—that seemed so healthy, satisfying and whole was, in fact, a realm in which Booth did not feel like himself. Brimming with sexual confidence and enthusiasm as he was, she saw then how all-encompassing the impacts of the crash had been on him, even if he had managed until that moment to conceal it from her.

"You _are _the man you were before," she whispered to him. She reached for his hands and clasped her smaller hands around his larger ones. "You're the same man, Booth. No less, no more. You just got your cast off today, and your arm is still a bit weak, but it will get stronger, and then—" Her mouth broke into a sexy half-grin. "Then you can take me however you want to, Booth."

"I didn't think you really wanted to be taken, Bones," he said with a soft laugh, a laugh she knew was a front that he was throwing up to mask a deeper insecurity. "You know, all that alpha male stuff."

For a moment, she looked into his deep, soft brown eyes but said nothing. "It's true," she said, "that you can only take from me what I give you." He narrowed his eyes. "But I've given you all of me, Booth. You know that."

"I know," he said, his voice low and breathy. "I know."

She placed her hand on his chest, her fingers splayed over his left pectoral. "I've never given all of myself to anyone before, Booth," she said. "And if I didn't think you were the same man you were before, I wouldn't keep giving myself to you. You know that, right?"

Booth looked into her pale eyes and searched for a flicker of doubt there, but found none. He blinked a couple of times, then nodded. "I know," he said. "It's just—"

Brennan took a deep breath. "Your manhood isn't proven by whether you prop yourself up over me when we make love," she said.

His mouth fell open as if he were going to speak but, after a few seconds, he rolled his lips together, then his brown eyes suddenly brightened again. "Come here," he said. She narrowed her eyes briefly as she hesitated. "I want to feel you with both hands, Bones."

Brennan nodded, reaching her hands down to peel off her panties as she watched him slide his boxers down his hips and toss them carelessly to the floor. He reached his arms out and beckoned her as she took her place in his lap, wrapping her legs around his hips. She felt his arousal press against her as his hands slid over the soft roundness of her hips, and she looked into his eyes, which glistened as their brown depths darkened beneath his heavy brow.

For several long moments they just looked into one another's eyes, neither moving or uttering so much as a murmur, and the only sound between them was the rise and fall of their breaths. Booth's palms roamed up and down the smooth skin of her thighs and over the swell of her hips before coming to rest against the small of her back.

Brennan closed her eyes and she exhaled deeply as she felt the rough, callused surfaces of his right palm, thumb and index finger skate across her skin. She knew his touch, and those calluses, having felt his right hand touch her countless times over the years, though never before with such intimacy. The roughness of his hand testified to years he had spent behind an FBI-issued pistol, and in that moment, as she thought about that hand, she felt that hand gently squeeze the flesh of her hip.

She leaned forward, her chest pressed against his as she dragged her lower lip along the pebbled skin of his jaw. "You're going home, Booth," she whispered in his ear. "You're going to go home soon—"

He turned his head towards her breathy whisper, his left hand coming up to caress the delicate line of her square jaw as he captured her lips between his in a kiss. Their tongues glanced off one another before he pulled his mouth away suddenly, leaving her gasping with puzzled want.

"I'm already home, Bones," he whispered as he entered her with a slow, gentle upward stroke. "Wherever I am…" He sucked in a breath as his right hand rubbed wide circles over the small of her back. "Wherever you are…" His gaze met hers as his lips brushed against her open mouth. "That's home."

"Yes," she whispered back.

* * *

><p><strong>AN****: **_So, you see that things have moved along. All signs are that Booth will be sent home to get that arm operated on. There's just one soldier among the twenty-one casualties left to be identified (do you wonder who it is?), and one more letter to write home to a fallen comrade's family. Then there's that other thing Booth needs to do for his men. We haven't forgotten about that, or—in case you were wondering—about that unexpected casualty from the teahouse collapse. (Yep, her.) The next few chapters will be intense. You've been warned. But I think you'll be happy with how this ends. (For my longtime readers, you know I never let you down in the happy ending department. And, no, not that kind of happy ending. The usual kind. Come on—get your minds out of the gutters.)_

_So—what do you think? Tell me. Please. Please, please, PLEASE—don't read and run._

_Tell me what you think about what happened in this chapter. Leave me a review._

_I'm dying here, folks._


	30. Homecoming

**Killing Two Birds**

* * *

><p><strong>By:<strong> dharmamonkey  
><strong>Rated:<strong> M  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> _Hart Hanson owns _Bones_. But people like me who play in his sandbox give you all those delicious little moments that Hart and friends leave out. In this case, AU do-overs for that gap between Seasons 5 and 6 that wrought so much havoc for our heroes. That's why you read fanfic._

* * *

><p><strong><span>AN:**

1) **Acronyms/terminology**: _A reviewer noted that I'm using some terminology the meaning of which may not be immediately evident. Here are some you'll want to take note of because they show up in this chapter:_

**C-17:** _A fixed-wing cargo aircraft used by the U.S. military to, inter alia, ferry (1) paratroopers to jump zones and (2) deceased servicemembers from Iraq/Afghanistan to Dover Air Force Base_

**IED:** _Improvised explosive device—a homemade roadside bomb_

**Dover Air Force Base:** _Home of the Charles C. Carson Center for Mortuary Affairs, a facility for handling the remains of American servicemembers._

**PCS_: _**_Permanent Change of Station refers to a soldier being moved from one assignment, unit or base to another._

**Retread:** _Army slang for an enlistee returning to the Army after a gap in service._

2) **Shout-out to my Hugely-Helpful Betas** _(or extended remix sneak-peekers, as it were)_ **AvaniHeath** _and_ **Jasper777**. _It's always good to get a read on whether I'm on the right track or not before I unleash a beast like this on the general population._

3) **Kleenex alert****:** _You know what that means. Consider yourself warned._

_So, anyways—alright, without further ado, let's go back to Bagram._

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><p><strong>Chapter 30: Homecoming<strong>

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><p>Booth woke with a start and bolted upright in bed, his chest heaving and his skin slick with a thin layer of sweat. He could feel his heart pounding in his ears and he rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands, sighing heavily before looking over at his partner curled up next to him, her bottom pressed against his thigh. He listened to the soft rumble of her snores and he tried to focus his mind on the sound, wrapping his mind around it as he tried to let go of the panic that gripped him in the wake of his most recent dream. His nostrils flared as he felt a slow burn spread through his sinuses and the tears well up in his eyes.<p>

Brennan stirred and he felt the smooth, warm skin of her bottom squirm against the side of his thigh. He heard her murmur and pull the comforter up over her shoulder so she looked like a floating head in a dark quilted sea. Booth drew his right leg up, careful not to move his left lest he disturb her, and he leaned his newly-regained arm across his knee, trying to ignore the creepy, crawly, itching sensation that he knew would quickly be followed by a wave of prickles, a half-dozen or so pulses of increasingly intense tingling and, finally, raw jolt of pain that seemed to start behind his elbow and shoot down his arm, across his palm and into the tips of his ring and pinky finger. He clenched his eyes shut and sucked in a hard, fast breath then exhaled slowly, trying to relax into the pain. After a minute or two, the sensation passed, leaving behind a dull ache and a tingling numbness in his two affected fingers.

"Booth?" she murmured, her voice low and indistinct, muffled by the comforter. She grunted quietly and rolled over, running her hand along the outside of his thigh and kissing his chest as she shook her head.

"Yeah, baby," he whispered, gently caressing her sleep-mussed hair. He loved watching her sleep, but a part of him loved watching her wake up even more—the way she slowly emerged from the thick fog of dreamland, her words falling from her lips in quasi-coherent mumbles as she stumbled groggily into the waking world.

"Why are you awake?" she whispered as she struggled to sit up next to him. A smile crept across Booth's lips as he noted the irony of being asked why he was awake by a woman who was clearly not entirely awake herself.

"Just thinking," he said quietly, his hand never stilling as he felt her silky hair, soft and messy, beneath his fingers.

She leaned over and kissed his cheek. "What are you thinking about, Booth?"

"_She fucking wants you, dude," Bastone said, taking a long drag on his cigarette as he waved his empty bottle in the air in an attempt to catch Clarissa's attention as she was pouring Booth's next pint of Pabst Blue Ribbon. "She wants you bad."_

"_You think so, huh?" Booth snorted, raising his pint glass and draining the remaining beer in a single swallow. "Hmmmph." _

"_Don't be dense," the gruff New Yorker replied, rolling his eyes as he set his bottle down on the bar with a clatter. "She'd fuckin' let you take her right there by the taps. I mean, bam!"_

_Booth's brow knit low over his eyes. "Wait, what?" he grunted. "Are you harboring some sort of deep-seated fantasy of seeing me drop my drawers? This is like the third time you've made reference to my goods or the use thereof."_

_Bastone arched an eyebrow. "Mmm—the 'use thereof?'" he repeated in a mocking tone. "No, I just think you deserve a little somethin'-somethin' before we dive headfirst into the hellhole, and that broad over there is ready to give it to you."_

"_I'm not that kind of guy, Lou," Booth said in a suddenly serious tone, his forehead crinkled as he cringed at the thought. "I'm just not—"_

"_What—single?" Bastone asked with a snicker as Clarissa flipped the tap closed and began to walk over with Booth's fresh pint. He shook his head with a dramatic roll of his eyes as long, twin streams of smoke billowed out of his nostrils. "Bullshit. So you're saying you've never had a one-night stand? A bang and bolt? 'Cause I don't believe you."_

_Booth shrugged and hid his smile behind the curve of his pint glass. He took a cautious sip as the memory flashed through his mind. He set his glass down and raised his hand, waggling his forefinger at his friend. "Once," he said. "Just once." _

_He and his Ranger squad were on the way back to the States from a mission in Guatemala and had stopped in Cancún on the way home. It all started with pitchers of sangria at the beachside bar, but quickly devolved into a cascading waterfall of debauchery involving tequila, limes, body shots and a group of college girls who were enjoying the last day of their Spring Break trip. The girls were a bit young—he'd been in his mid-twenties at the time—but after adding another hashmark on his cosmic balance sheet taking down a pot-bellied colonel in the Unidad Revolucionaria Nacional Guatemalteca, Booth wanted nothing more, at that moment in time, than to drink and party himself into oblivion. _

_After demolishing a couple of pitchers of sangria and laying waste to three or four tequila shots apiece (all of them consumed with the lovely assistance of the girls from Boston College and, in particular, their cleavage), the men of the squad quickly paired off with their new friends. Booth ended up with a blond Portuguese girl, Catarina, from Providence, Rhode Island. She was pretty, and he was pretty drunk—and more importantly, swirling in the dark mood of his post-kill funk—so his conscience about these things wasn't lighting off the way it usually did. At the time, it had seemed pretty damn hot, taking her from behind under the shade of a palm tree, just out of earshot from the cabana—a good thing, too, because she was the loudest woman he'd ever been with—but like the booze itself, in the end, the whole experience left him feeling utterly empty. _

_Bastone narrowed his eyes skeptically as Booth recounted the story and heard the heaviness in his friend's tone. "Who is she?" he asked, all vestiges of snark falling away from his voice. "Not the girl in Cancún," he clarified. "I mean the one that's holding onto your heart, pal." He gestured with his hand, his fingers clawed around an invisible object as if he were demonstrating a knuckleball. "Who is she?"_

"_Nobody," Booth muttered, bringing his glass to his lips for another healthy swallow. "Look, I don't want to—"_

_Bastone slid his empty bottle to the back of the bar in time to accept the new one from Clarissa, who handed it to him without so much as a second glance before she leaned exaggeratedly over the bar to wipe away a tiny puddle of spilled beer a couple of inches away from Booth's glass._

"_Okay, bucko," he said. "Spill it. Come on. And don't give me that fucking 'nobody' bullshit, Booth. You've got it bad for somebody. It's written all over that heart-breaking, virtue-snagging, cherry-popping mug of yours."_

Booth swallowed but said nothing, rolling his head to the side, burying his nose in her hair as he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.

"Are you thinking about Lou Bastone?" she asked.

Although he'd known for days that 1SG Bastone would be the last remaining member of Alpha 3623 to be positively identified and prepared for transfer back to Dover, Brennan had noted a distinct change in Booth's mood after she notified him previous afternoon that they had matched enough of the last set of remains to the data in Bastone's service file to confirm beyond a shadow of a doubt that the badly damaged partial skeleton was, in fact, none other than Louis Angelo Bastone of Brooklyn, New York.

"Yeah," he whispered.

Brennan closed her eyes and felt his warm breath tickle her scalp. A heavy wave of emotion crashed over her as she felt overcome with the singular desire to take away his pain—to take it away from him and hold his pain close to her chest, to share his burden somehow. She thought of the field work she had done as a graduate student in India, and the month she spent in a community of Tibetan exiles in the northern Indian state of Himachal Pradesh, and how she had watched a group of young nuns practicing what they called _tonglen. _This meditative practice, the name of which translated as 'sending and receiving,' involved the meditator visualizing taking onto oneself the suffering of other sentient beings while breathing in, and sending out feelings of happiness and equanimity with the out-breath. She wished that such a practice would work for Booth, whose sadness and loss seemed at times like these so profound and, she feared, buried too deep for her to reach.

"I love you, Booth," she said to him, unable at that moment to think of anything better to say.

"I know you do," he murmured into her scalp. "I love you, too." He fell silent for a few moments, then shook his head gently. "It's just—" He sighed. "He was my best friend in the Alpha, and—I don't know, Bones."

"I'm sorry, Booth," she whispered, turning her head to kiss his jaw. "I'm so sorry. But he's going home—and so are you."

"We both are," he said, rubbing his lips against her hair.

* * *

><p>Booth stood in front of the mirror, tucked in his white shirt and fastened his medium-blue gabardine wool trousers. He took a deep breath and pulled his suspenders up over his shoulders and reached for his dark blue uniform coat, which had an awkward, top-heavy feel on account of the four rows of campaign ribbons, qualification badges, Combat Infantryman Badge, Sergeant Major's stripes, service stripes and Special Forces unit insignia. He put on his coat one arm at a time, grateful that he finally had the cast off so that he could wear the tailored coat. He buttoned up the front, straightened his tie, and cleared his throat. He glanced down at his jump boots, which he'd worked feverishly to shine to a high gloss, then bent down and gave one of his trouser legs a little tug to ensure it was properly bloused.<p>

"You look great, Booth," Brennan said, trying to conceal the sadness in her voice as she considered the gravity of the errand that Booth was about to perform.

"Thanks, Bones," he said. "I'm glad I was able to get Rebecca to go into my storage unit and retrieve my Class-As. And that I got that damn cast off so I can fit into it right." He rubbed his hand over his newly-trimmed haircut before putting on his green beret. He looked once more into the mirror and forced a closed-mouth smile.

"You're doing a great honor to your friend, Booth," she said as she rubbed her hand in a circle over his upper back. "I think it will mean a lot to Mrs. Bastone to know that you made the last journey with him."

Booth nodded. "Yeah," he whispered. "You'll meet me there at Dover, right?"

"Yes," she replied, bringing her hand up to stroke the razor-short hair on the nape of his neck with the tips of her fingers. He smiled and rolled his shoulder at the ticklish feel of the gesture. "I'll be there. My flight is scheduled to leave thirty minutes after yours."

He turned to face her, trying to smile through the sad expression on his face. She embraced him, rubbing her cheek against the soft felt of his beret as he rested his chin on her shoulder. "Okay," he said as she cupped her hand around the back of his head. "Thanks, Bones," he whispered as he pulled away from her embrace. "Not just for—" He shrugged. "I mean, for everything."

She shook her head and palmed his warm, smooth, clean-shaven cheek. "Of course," she said. "I'll see you at Dover, Booth."

He rolled his lips together firmly and nodded.

* * *

><p>Brennan and Wendell stood at the door to the hangar they shared with the 54th Quartermaster Company. They observed in silence as the flag-draped aluminum transfer case containing 1SG Lou Bastone's shattered remains was carefully loaded onto the bed of an open-backed Humvee by six white-gloved mortuary specialists from the 54th. They watched solemnly as Booth stood nearby at straight-backed attention in his neatly pressed, dark blue Class-A Service Uniform, his jaw rigid and his eyes unmoving as he crisply saluted his fallen comrade. Once Bastone was loaded onto the back of the truck, the six pallbearers stepped back and Booth climbed into the passenger seat of the Humvee. He glanced back at Brennan and Wendell as the vehicle pulled away.<p>

Wendell sighed as the throaty growl of the truck's V8 faded into the distance. He turned and saw Brennan staring, her eyes glistening with tears, as the Humvee drove off towards the flight line.

"He's a strong man, Dr. Brennan," he said. "He'll be alright."

"I know," she said quietly. "I just wish I could be there for him—today, I mean."

"He won't be alone," a voice chipped in. 1LT Ashley Meade took her place behind the pair and narrowed her eyes as she watched the Humvee drive towards the flightline where a C-17 cargo plane was waiting.

Wendell swiveled his head around. "What?" he asked, exchanging a confused look with Brennan before turning back to Meade.

Meade shrugged. "A Lance Corporal in the Seventh Marines was killed by an IED four days ago in Helmand Province," she said quietly, glancing over her shoulder at the flag-draped transfer case that sat in the 54th's loading bay waiting for the next open-backed Humvee to arrive. "We're sending him home, and he's being escorted home by another Marine."

Brennan nodded slowly and breathed a quiet sigh of relief but said nothing. As the distant Humvee turned a corner and disappeared from sight, she turned and walked back into the hangar.

"Ashley," Wendell whispered, reaching his hand behind him to brush her knuckles with his fingertips. "I'm sorry," he said, turning to face her.

"Don't be," she replied. "Look—we're lucky, right? I'm PCS'ing back stateside in three weeks. Fort Lee is two and a half hours south of D.C." She smiled and laughed. "Hell, Wendell—I've been in traffic jams on the Capital Beltway longer than that."

"I know," he said, squeezing her hand. "It's just been…"

She cocked her head. "I know," she whispered. "But you're going home, and I'll be back in Virginia soon, and it'll be better." Seeing his doubtful frown, she slid her hand from his and reached up to clasp his upper arm. "This has been hard—even though your neighbors have been more than willing to keep quiet about me going into your quarters…" She smirked as her twinkling eyes met Wendell's. "I haven't had the freedom that I will at home. We'll see less of each other every day but we'll be able to be more—"

"Open," he said, finishing her sentence with a grin. "I know, it's just—"

"Your friend needs you, Wendell," she said. "These next few weeks are going to be really pivotal for him, coming back to the States after being in combat, never mind having been through the crap that he's been through."

Wendell nodded. "You're right…"

"He's gonna need a guy friend," she said quietly. "She—" Meade gestured towards the north end of the hangar where Brennan had staged her Jeffersonian East operation. "She can't do it all on her own. He's gonna need a network, and you—especially being both someone from home, and someone who knows what happened to him over here—you're gonna to be an important part of that network."

Looking off into the distance into which Booth's Humvee disappeared, Wendell nodded. "I know," he murmured. He looked down at his feet, then up again into his girlfriend's eyes. "I want to do for Booth what I wasn't able to do when my cousin got back from Iraq a few years ago. You know—be there for him."

"You will," she said, pulling him into an embrace and rubbing his back before pulling away to kiss him chastely on the cheek, aware that the enlisted soldiers of her company were watching. "I'm sure of it."

* * *

><p>Booth climbed out of the Humvee and stood silently to the side as he stared into the gaping maw of the C-17 plane's aft cargo bay. His brow furrowed briefly as he realized that his eyes weren't burning and his nostrils weren't burning the way they had earlier that day. It seemed as if he had no more tears to shed at this point.<p>

He watched the six men of the Air Force honor guard approach the Humvee with slow, evenly-measured steps. They wore crisp, dark blue Service Dress uniforms, the Air Force equivalent of the Class-A's he wore, and the sun glinted off the high gloss of their shoes and the patent-leather brims of their service caps. As the men of the honor guard walked closer to the back of the truck, Booth impulsively stepped forward and stood in front of the tailgate. The honor guard's leader, a dark-skinned Senior Master Sergeant whose name plate read _Saenz, _raised his hand vaguely to halt the group's approach.

With a heavy sigh, Booth reached up and touched the corner of Bastone's flag-draped aluminum transfer case. For several moments, he said nothing but just felt the smooth fabric of the newly-ironed flag as his mind raced with a gush of memories. He saw the faces of the men who'd fallen while fighting beside him in battle: the pink cheeks and slightly bulging eyes of Teddy Parker, whose life's blood pulsed out and soaked Booth's BDUs as he'd carried him through the Iraqi _wadi _back to the rendezvous point where the helicopter came to extract them; another man from the 101st Airborne, Matthews, who Booth had shielded from an exploding grenade by covering his injured body with his own during a firefight gone badly wrong in Samawah; the two fellow Rangers who bled out in the sand in Mogadishu in 1993 as Booth had watched helplessly from a nearby overwatch position; and the faces of the other men in Special Forces Operational Detachment-Alpha 3623—Hackett, Lukas, Swann, Parnell, Makovsky, Dawson, Hornby, Kennedy and the two officers, Sivick and Torres.

"I don't know why this happened," he whispered. "Or why I was the lucky bastard that survived this thing." He swallowed and slowly stroked his thumb over one of the flag's broad red stripes.

"I sure as hell am not more deserving," he muttered. "It's not like I'm the only one with kids." He blinked, remembering the look in Bastone's boy's tear-rimmed eyes the afternoon the men of the Alpha said their goodbyes in the gym at Ft. Bragg. "You, Kennedy, Dawson, Parnell and the captain and lieutenant all have kids."

Booth bit down on the inside of his lip and blinked away an image of his father—one of the earliest memories he had of him, pushing three or four year-old Booth on a swing behind their duplex in base housing at Fort Campbell, Kentucky. As he shook away the memory, another image flashed before his mind's eye—that of Gracie Ann Booth, standing in her kitchen in the south Philly brownstone she shared with her husband Hank and their two grandsons, Seeley and Jared, assembling a deep-dish lasagna, layer by layer.

"_Nan," he heard his younger self ask her. "If God loves all of us, why do bad things happen to good people?" _He must have been ten or eleven years old at the time. In the nearly thirty years since then, despite all the masses he'd heard, all the communion he'd taken, all the catechism he'd learned, he felt no closer to an answer than he'd been that summer afternoon in Philly.

Booth shrugged as he stroked the edge of the flag. "I don't understand why any of this happened, Lou," he whispered. "I can't make it make sense in my mind, buddy." He closed his hand around the corner of the matte-finished transfer case, imagining that he could somehow feel some warmth, some sort of energy, emanate through the cold, smooth aluminum. "I've been given a second chance, pal—to do the right thing this time—and I'm not gonna let…" He gritted his teeth and closed his fingers into a fist. "I'm gonna do the right thing, buddy."

He brought his other hand up and pressed both palms against the side of the brushed-aluminum case as he bent his head down reverently. "You're goin' home, Lou. I'll be with you every step of the way, alright?" He lifted his head and it was then he noticed the hundreds of uniformed personnel who stood in a solemn line along each side of the runway to observe the Fallen Comrade Ceremony. Booth saw men and women in various uniforms—the muted grayish-green of the Army ACUs, the mottled, pixelized sand- and brown-hued camouflage of the Marine Corps Combat Utilities, and the digital tiger-stripe pattern of the Airman Battle Uniform—all standing at parade rest, their feet shoulder-width apart with their hands crossed loosely behind their backs.

He straightened up and stepped away from the tailgate of the Humvee as his eyes met those of SMSgt Saenz, who nodded solemnly as two of his airmen carefully climbed up into the back of the Humvee and slid Bastone's transfer case along the rollers into the waiting hands of their four fellows below.

Once Bastone was lowered from the truck and held by the six honor guard pallbearers, three on each side, Booth slowly raised his right arm in salute as they carried him up the corrugated steel ramp into the C-17. Once they had set Bastone down onto the aircraft's steel deck, Booth lowered his salute and assumed a parade rest position as the engine of the Humvee behind him roared to life again.

No sooner had that Humvee driven away when another pulled up behind him. The driver cut the engine and Booth swiveled his head to find a Marine in his early 30s sitting in the passenger seat. Booth looked away again for a couple of moments then turned on his heel to face the other vehicle. The Marine stepped down and took his place beside Booth, his mouth hanging open a little as he stared at the flag-draped case in the back.

"Sergeant Major Booth," he said by way of greeting. Booth did not turn his head but glanced at the Marine's insignia and nametape out of the corner of his eye.

"Gunnery Sergeant Morten," he murmured back, gulping as he saw the younger man's head turn slightly to reveal a bandage taped over his left eye.

Morten stood in awkward silence for several long moments as he watched the aircrew lash Bastone's transfer case onto the securement points on the C-17's steel deck while the honor guard stood by.

"I've never done this before," he whispered. "I'm sorry."

Booth pursed his lips and looked over at the nervous Marine. "Neither have I," Booth admitted quietly.

"I guess I messed up the uniform of the day," Morten said, surveying Booth's crisp Class-A dress uniform before glancing down at his camouflage utilities.

With a slight shake of his head, Booth whispered, "No." The frown that had curved his lips since Morten had broken the solemn silence gave way to a vague smile. "I had my ex pull this out of storage for me and Fedex it here so I could make the trip in full dress," he explained. "You know—out of respect for my buddy. But you're okay." Booth hesitated, then added, "You'll probably be more comfortable anyway."

"Thanks," the Marine said gratefully. Another several moments passed between them in silence before Morten broke it again. "I know who you are," he said.

Booth's eyebrows knit low over his eyes as he turned to glare at the Marine. "Really," he said, more as a statement than as a query.

"You're the guy that survived that crash in Marjeh last month," he said, his hazel eyes suddenly duller as something flickered behind them.

After a moment of hesitation, Booth sighed, "I am." He watched as the Marine's expression shifted and an anguish came over his features, and he narrowed his eyes as he tried to understand what was going on inside his young companion's mind.

"My girlfriend was the twenty-second," he said vaguely.

"What?" he whispered, shaking his head in confusion before realizing the meaning of Morten's comment. "Oh…" He blinked. "Hannah Burley?"

The Marine's face slackened and the words suddenly gushed from him. "I don't know if it was gonna end up being a thing, you know, that would have lasted, but one night we were together—really happy, you know—and the next night she was gone." He shook his head sadly, pulling up the brim of his eight-point utility cap and scratching his forehead. "What might it have been for us?" he asked. "I dunno, you know. Maybe it wouldn't have lasted. We were together not quite six weeks. But now, it's like I'll never know."

Booth's right eye twitched as he considered how every one of the people his partner and Wendell had reassembled and identified had been someone, and been something to someone else. At some level, he knew that he'd managed to do his job with the FBI because he could detach himself emotionally from the fact that every someone was something to someone else, but here, at Bagram, this was possible only for Hannah Burley, who was a complete stranger. But now, not even she was, as he watched the suffering of the Marine in front of him.

"I'm sorry," Booth said as he raised his gaze to see the honor guard walking down the steel ramp and back into the sunlight.

"Don't miss your chance, man," the Marine said off-hand as he knew his friend's moment of honor was at hand. "You never know what day'll be your last. Don't let anyone you love go a day without knowing how much you love 'em. You might never get a second chance to tell 'em."

Booth nodded, his teeth clenched hard as he tried to steel himself, summoning up a steady focus so he could show the heartbroken, rattled Marine how to observe the decorum required at the moment. The two men stood side by side, still as glass, as the C-17 aircrew carefully lashed Morten's fallen comrade, Lance Corporal Ramirez, to the steel deck.

As far as Booth could tell from the Marine's somewhat jumbled explanation, young Ramirez had been eviscerated by an IED in Marjeh while on foot patrol in one of the alleyways off the bazaar—an IED that had been hidden in the same kind of trash pile that Booth and his men had always given a leery eye to on their own foot patrols—the same bazaar where Booth and Bastone had stumbled on the bloody aftermath of a powerful car-bombing six months earlier. Fragments of shrapnel from the IED had been propelled more than thirty feet into Morten's eye and brow. He'd told Booth, his voice low in grim resignation, that he had an appointment the following week at Bethesda Naval Hospital's ophthalmology clinic to speak to a surgeon about repairing the skin around his eye socket so he could be fitted with a glass eye.

Once Ramirez was secured to the deck and the Air Force honor guard had quietly deplaned, Booth and Morten walked up the ramp and into the mouth of the C-17's wide, long cargo bay. Booth smiled faintly as he recalled the dozens of times he had trudged up the metal ramp of a C-17 in preparation for an airborne jump, including the combat jump he'd made into Kosovo with Hank Luttrell as well as a number of Special Operations Command night jumps which would never be acknowledged for what they truly were—combat jumps into enemy territory—with a tiny bronze star on his airborne wings. He sat down in one of the fold-down jump seats along the wall across from Bastone, whose case was lashed firmly next to the dead Marine. Booth remembered how many times he'd sat in a jump seat, a parachute rig on his back, a spare chute strapped to his chest, a 110-pound rucksack between his knees and his Kevlar helmet cinched tight under his chin.

"You mind?" Morten asked as he flipped the jumpseat down and sat immediately to Booth's right.

"No," Booth said with a fleeting smirk. "Go right ahead," he whispered.

Morten placed his hands on his lap, digging his fingertips into his thighs as his leg bounced up and down. "I know we're probably supposed to be quiet and all…" He gestured with a slight jerk of his chin towards Ramirez and Bastone. "But I can't, man—I mean, it's gonna be a long flight to Turkey, and a long one on to Ramstein after that, and—"

Booth nodded, looking over once more to Bastone as he remembered the last time he'd flown into Ramstein Air Base in Germany. In fact, he didn't actually remember the last time he'd landed at Ramstein in the belly of a cargo plane, because he'd been in an impenetrable morphine haze, strapped to a gurney with restraints by the medics to keep him from ripping out his IVs after he'd awoke mid-flight in a blood-curdling panic certain that his Republican Guard captors had resorted to the use of sodium pentothal to extract from him the information he'd refuse to give them under torture.

"And then there's another long one to Dover after that…"

Booth twisted the toe of his polished jump boot against the metal deck as he recalled the rigid walking boots he'd been in for a month after that, and the six weeks of painful physical therapy he'd endured thereafter. His feet still ached after a long day, especially if he had to spend more than a couple of hours standing in one place without moving.

"I don't want to just sit here in silence for the next twenty-odd hours," the Marine said glumly. "Not after…" His voice trailed off as he searched for sympathy in Booth's deep brown eyes. "Please, Sergeant Major."

Sighing and biting the inside of his lip, Booth glanced over at Bastone. _What do you think, Lou? Should I let this chatty Kathy ruin your nice, quiet trip home?_ He smirked.

"_Who you callin' a chatty Kathy there, Philly boy?" Bastone snorted as he stood outside the Alpha's barracks tent, his foot propped on his favorite fig tree stump. "I gotta do somethin' or else I'm stuck listening to the sound of your mouth-breathing, you retread motherfucker."_

"_Fuck you, Bastone," Booth grunted as he pulled a bandless cigar out of the thigh pocket of his fatigues and snipped off the end. _

"_Yeah?" Bastone flipped open his lighter and lit Booth's cigar. "Fuck you, Booth."_

_Booth did not immediately answer but puffed his cigar languidly with a laughing twinkle in his eye. He narrowed his gaze and watched the tendrils of smoke stream out of his nostrils. "A mouth-breather?" he chuckled. "I'm a fuckin' sniper. The last goddamn thing I am is a mouth-breather."_

_Bastone arched a skeptical eyebrow and took a long, dramatic drag on his Marlboro. "Yeah? Well, you fuckin' snore."_

_Booth threw his head back in laughter. "Me, snore?" he said. He took another hearty puff on his cigar and pointed at Bastone with the burning tip glowing faintly in the dark of the Afghan night. "Hell, even the kid sergeants call you 'Long Train Runnin' and most of them wouldn't even know the song if you played it for 'em."_

_The New Yorker narrowed his eyes as he watched Booth lean his head back and savor the cigar's taste. "Is that a Cuban?" he whispered, his eyes darting towards the open flap of the tent as he briefly met Kennedy's glance before looking away again._

"_Like I'd tell you if it was," Booth retorted. "You wouldn't dare tell on me, anyway."_

"_Not if you share," Bastone replied with a crooked, toothy grin, his cigarette wagging between his lips as he spoke. _

Booth turned and looked into Morten's one hazel eye. "Bastone won't mind, as long as you don't talk any trash about Brooklyn," he said.

Morten smiled. "Ramirez won't mind either," he replied. "As long as you don't diss Puerto Rico or his mom's plaintains."

"Sounds like a deal," Booth said. "Just keep the volume down, okay? Out of respect."

The Marine nodded, clearly grateful not to be left in the prison of his own thoughts for the full course of the three consecutive flights that would take the two of them, and their fallen comrades, home.

"Thanks, Sergeant Major," he said earnestly.

"Call me Booth."

* * *

><p>Morten finally fell asleep somewhere over the Caspian Sea, leaving Booth alone with his own thoughts. Glancing over to make sure the loquacious, nervous Marine was truly down for the count, he reached into his uniform jacket and pulled out a folded letter. He held the paper in his hand for a few moments, stroking the paper between his fingers as he felt the imprint of the handwriting, then opened up the letter and began to read.<p>

_Dear Booth,_

_By the time you read this you'll probably be well on your way to Incirlik Air Base, not quite a third of the way home. I'm sorry I wasn't able to make this difficult journey with you, but I am sure you'll be alright. I meant what I said that you are doing your friend, your fallen comrade, a tremendous honor accompanying him on his final journey home. Although I never had the pleasure of meeting any of your friends from your Special Forces unit, from what you have told me of them and what I've read in your letters, they were an incredible group of men, and I know they thought the world of you, though you served with them only a short time. I am quite certain that Bastone would have been thrilled, had he been given the choice, to have you be the one to escort him home._

_Home…_

_Doesn't that sound wonderful?  
><em>

_I am so glad you, too, are coming home, and that I am coming home with you, even if we don't get to make this part of the trip home together. I cannot quite express how happy I am that we finally figured things out between us, and that we are going home to Washington, together, and that when we get there, we'll be able to be together—really together—and to begin a life together._

_Booth, you are the bravest, strongest, most loyal and most honorable man I have ever met, and I am so proud of you for what you have done these last few weeks, and for the steps you are taking to make things better, for yourself and for others. I don't know how else to say it. I am incredibly proud of you, and unspeakably grateful to have you in my life. I never, ever thought I would say this about someone, but I found myself thinking, again and again—throughout the time I was in Maluku and since leaving there and arriving in Afghanistan to find that my prayers (yes, my prayers!) had been answered and that you were alive—that you are the best thing that has ever happened to me. _

_I love you, Booth, and I look forward to seeing you when we both arrive at Dover._

_Be strong as I know you are, and I will see you soon._

_Love,_

_Bones_

Booth closed his eyes and smiled. He brought the paper to his mouth and held it there as he brushed the paper, with its faint indentations from Brennan's precise, firmly-placed handwriting, across his lips.

"I love you, Bones," he whispered. He winked at Bastone's flag-draped transfer case and kissed the letter again before sliding it back into the interior pocket of his uniform jacket.

"She was never 'nobody' to me," he told his comrade. "And you knew it all along, though you never met her."

Booth sniffed and patted his chest where the letter lay, smiling as he blinked away a tear.

* * *

><p><strong>AN****: **_How 'bout that letter, huh? Bet you didn't expect that one. _

_This Chapter 30 was an incredibly difficult chapter to write. Perhaps the hardest one of all, to be honest, which is saying a lot because I've written some doozies for K2B. _

_I really, really want to know what you think folks thought of it. So, please—tell me. Please. Please, please, PLEASE—don't read and run._

_Tell me what you think about what happened in this chapter. Leave me a review._

_I'm dying here, folks._


	31. Whistleblower

**Killing Two Birds**

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><p><strong>By:<strong> dharmamonkey  
><strong>Rated:<strong> M  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> _Hart Hanson owns _Bones_. But people like me who play in his sandbox give you all those delicious little moments that Hart and friends leave out. In this case, AU do-overs for that gap between Seasons 5 and 6 that wrought so much havoc for our heroes. That's why you read fanfic._

* * *

><p><strong><span>AN:**

1) **Military acronyms/terminology: **_A reviewer noted that I'm using some acronyms/lingo the meaning of which may not be immediately evident. Here are some you'll want to take note of because they show up in this chapter:_

**CENTCOM:**_ U.S. Central Command is a theater-level joint (multi-branch) unit of the U.S. armed forces based in Tampa, Florida that controls strategy and high-level tactics for an area of responsibility that includes countries in the Middle East, North Africa, and Central Asia, most notably Afghanistan and Iraq._

**SWCS**_ (pronounced "swick"): The John F. Kennedy Special Warfare Center and School at Ft. Bragg, North Carolina, where soldiers undergo training to become Green Berets._

**IG: **_Inspector General, the compliance arm of the U.S. Army, which reports directly into the Secretary of the Army and the U.S. Army Chief of Staff. _

2) **Reader thanks: **_We're getting down to brass tacks here, my dear readers. Just a few more chapters left. I want to take the opportunity now to thank you all—the hundreds of you who have been faithfully following this story over the last couple of months—for reading and (for those of you kind enough to do so) reviewing this piece. _

_Remember, I don't make any money off this effort: the only revenue I get is the psychic revenue I reap from reader reviews. If after thirty chapters and all the work you've put into reading this piece (never mind the work this author has put into it), you still haven't reviewed, I urge you—hell, I beg you—to leave a review. You have no idea how much it means to hear from readers when writing a piece like this. If you think this piece is emotional to read, you can safely assume it's been that emotional on my end to write. So, please, enjoy this chapter, and leave me a little note. I'd be really grateful for it._

_So, anyways—alright, without further ado, let's go back to Bagram. Oh, wait—we're not at Bagram anymore. Booth and Brennan are back, baby—back in the good ol' USA!_

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><p><strong>Chapter 31: Whistleblower<strong>

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><p>Brennan stood in front of her gas range stirring a wok-ful of vegetables with a bamboo spatula. The excess sesame oil in the wok popped and hissed, a not-so-subtle reminder that it had been a while since she'd cooked a meal in her own kitchen. She glanced over her shoulder and saw her partner in the living room, a bottle of beer dangling loosely from his hand as he stood next to the window, staring in silence at the occasional car passing on the damp street below.<p>

It had been a long couple of days for them—particularly for him—since they had parted at the loading bay on the south end of the hangar housing the 54th Quartermaster Company. She felt her metaphorical heart ache for him as she'd watched him ride away in the Humvee carrying his slain friend, Bastone, and the heartache she had felt at that moment seemed to ebb and flow like a tide as that day stretched on and on until the moment she first saw him at Dover.

_She saw him there at the top of the C-17's steel ramp, standing at straight-backed attention next to a young Marine in desert fatigues, each of them crisply saluting the flag-draped aluminum transfer case as it was carried down the ramp by the six-man Air Force honor guard. He seemed very far away at that moment, farther than the hundred or so feet of physical distance would have led her to believe, and there was a part of her that wanted nothing more at that point than to run up to him and throw her arms around him. But she stood there, watching him as he stood paying his respects to his comrade, and a few minutes later to the second man whose remains were similarly carried down the ramp to the nearby vehicle that would carry them each to Dover's mortuary facility._

Brennan blinked and turned her attention back to the onions, peppers, bamboo shoots, water chestnuts and mushrooms that sizzled and popped in the wok. She reached over and grabbed a mixing bowl, and carefully scooped half of the wok's contents into the bowl before adding a generous helping of thinly-sliced beef sirloin strips to the oil-coated wok. Her nostrils filled with the odor of cooking meat, and she winced slightly as she turned once more, noting that the same smell had caught Booth's attention as he stood near the window. Their eyes met briefly and they exchanged a faint smile before he turned away again, returning his gaze to the street below.

She didn't need to ask what he was thinking about.

_Booth opened his arms and embraced Darleen Bastone, closing his eyes as her shorter, slighter frame shuddered against him. _

"_Oh, God," the woman sobbed, her voice muffled against Booth's body. Brennan watched as the widow's slender fingers curled around the sergeant major's stripes on Booth's uniform coat and she pressed her cheek into Booth's broad chest. _

"_I'm sorry," he whispered to her, his voice broken with emotion. "I'm so sorry, Darleen."_

_Darleen Bastone pulled away from Booth's embrace and wiped a tear from her eye as her little boy tugged on the bottom hem of her sweater. She held her son's hand in hers and placed her free hand on the handle of the baby stroller, rocking it back and forth slowly as the baby girl inside cooed, her blue eyes looking up lazily at Booth. He took a breath and bent over, reaching his hand into the stroller and stroking the top of the dark-haired infant's tiny knuckles. Brennan stood to the side and saw a smile crack across his face as the five week-old instinctively reached up and closed her tiny pink fist around his thick, calloused index finger._

"_What is her name?" Brennan asked, unable to suppress a smile at seeing her partner show affection to his fallen friend's baby girl._

_Darleen smiled. "Celia—Celia Lorraine," she replied, emphasizing each syllable. _

_Booth looked up, his mouth falling open in puzzled surprise as his eyes quickly glistened with tears. _

_Bastone's wife nodded. "Lou was quite insistent that we name her after you," she explained. "But I told him that hell would freeze over before I named my little girl 'Seeley.'" She arched an eyebrow as she watched her husband's friend's reaction._

_All traces of anguish on Booth's grief-hardened face melted away and a smile curved his lips in the fleeting moment before all three of them laughed._

Brennan shrugged away the memory as she scooped the beef and vegetable stir-fry into a separate bowl.

"Booth," she called out to him. "Dinner…"

He sighed and turned away from the window. "Coming, Bones…"

* * *

><p>They were standing side by side in the kitchen, Booth washing the dinner dishes as Brennan loaded them into her dishwasher, when Booth's phone rang. For a few seconds, he stood there as if a bit stunned, before he shut off the water and reached into the pocket of his sweats for his phone.<p>

"Booth…"

Brennan laid the last plate into the bottom rack then quietly closed the dishwasher door, watching and listening breathlessly to her partner's side of the phone conversation.

"Yes—"

A faint smile appeared on Booth's face then vanished quickly.

"That was just an abstract," he told the caller. "I have a much more detailed package of information that I would like to deliver to you in person."

His eyes narrowed and he shook his head. "No," he said firmly. "I'm not comfortable meeting with you in the—"

Several seconds passed before he interrupted the caller.

"No," he said again, his voice louder and more insistent.

He rolled his eyes and rubbed his stubbled chin. "Look, alright? I'm calling foul on the Third Special Forces Group, United States Special Operations Command, the U.S. Army Military Police Corps and probably U.S. Central Command, on a cover-up related to the worst single-incident loss of personnel the U.S. military has suffered during the entire course of the Afghan War. Any _one_ of those outfits could fuck me up—one of which already has threatened to do so, by the way—but together, they can ruin my fucking life at best, at worst send someone to wax me and make me disappear so that my body will never turn up and explain it away by saying I was some kind of whacked-out, PTSD'd nutwad that AWOL'd and then offed himself." He shot a quick glance to Brennan whose pale eyes had widened at his words.

"Booth," she whispered, biting her lip at hearing the anger and fear in his words.

"Alright? So, no—I'm not meeting you at the Pentagon, the Starbucks on Pennsylvania Ave or anywhere else within a hundred miles of the Pentagon, okay? Or any place within a hundred mile radius of Ft. Bragg for that matter, okay?"

He listened to the caller, his chest rising and falling as the hard-bitten words of his stream-of-consciousness tirade had left him panting for breath.

"Not gonna happen," he snapped. "You have a car?"

He blinked, drumming his fingers on the counter as he listened for the response.

"Okay," he said. "This is how this is gonna work. Tomorrow night, ten o'clock, Paul Duffy's Public House in South Philly—Passyunk and 20th Street, okay? I'll have the full package of details for you—diagrams, photographs, x-rays, evidence, the whole enchilada—and I'll be prepared to discuss it all in exacting detail with you."

"What do you mean how will you know me?" he asked with a snort. "Don't you have a dossier on me with a little photograph?"

Brennan listened but couldn't decipher the squeaks coming from Booth's handset.

"I'll be wearing a green and white Phillies cap, bright blue running shoes and a black leather jacket," he said. "And I've got a scar over my ear from when a building fell on me in Marjeh. I'm sure you'll recognize me. I'll be sitting next to a knockout brunette with light blue eyes." He winked at Brennan as he listened to the caller's protest.

"Why am I not coming alone?" he asked with a laugh. "Because after the shit I've been through, pal, I don't trust you either, and I'm not going alone on this little errand, okay?" He smirked into the phone. "But don't take it personally." He switched the handset to his other ear and ran his hand back over the inch-long hair on the top of his head.

"Yeah…tomorrow night…ten o'clock…Paul Duffy's in South Philly…"

"Yeah," he murmured. "See you then."

The call terminated with a beep and Booth set his phone down on the counter. He shrugged as in silent response to something he'd said to himself, then took a deep breath and exchanged a long look with Brennan before picking up the phone again.

"Hey Rebecca..."

"Yeah—" He smiled into the phone. "Yeah, we just got into Dover this morning."

"You have no idea, Becks," he said. "I can't begin to tell you how glad I am to be home."

"Yeah—"

Booth's brow creased as a nervous look crossed his face. "Yeah, that's kind of why I'm calling," he said. "I know it's kind of last minute and all, considering the hour…" He glanced at his watch and saw it was nearly ten. "But, do you think you could bring Parker by the diner for breakfast, you know—maybe around nine?"

Brennan cocked her head sympathetically, raising her eyebrows expectantly as she silently hoped that Booth's ex would concede to his request.

"Yeah, see Bones and I have to go back up to Dover for a few days to do some stuff, and then up to New York for a couple of days for a, uh, funeral, and—"

He closed his eyes and threw his head back in relief. "God, that's great, Becks…" He turned to Brennan and flashed his eyebrows and a wide, toothy grin. "Yeah—whatever works best for you…" She walked up to him and wrapped her arms around his waist. "Eight-thirty is perfect. We'll see you then. Tell Parker I can't wait to—"

Brennan leaned in and kissed him on the cheek with a smile.

"Alright, we'll see you guys then. Thanks, Becks. Seriously—thanks."

Booth clicked the phone to hang up and looked at his partner, grinning from ear to ear as he set the phone on the counter. For a few moments, they just looked at one another, then he brought his hands up to cup her face. His mouth hovered just inches from hers, and he felt her breath on his upper lip. He closed his eyes and gently pulled her face towards his, their mouths meeting in a brief but grasping kiss.

"I love you, Bones," he whispered before he covered her mouth with his once more, a raw tingle of want passing through him as he felt her tongue glance against his.

"We're home, Booth," she whispered back, their kiss breaking just long enough to catch their breaths before their mouths came together again.

"Finally…"

* * *

><p>Booth and Brennan were each halfway through their second cup of coffee—their bodies' circadian rhythms having been thrown off by the nine and a half hour difference between Afghan time and Eastern Standard Time—when Rebecca and Parker walked into the Royal Diner.<p>

"Dad!" the boy shouted as he saw his father and Brennan seated in their usual table in the far corner.

Booth nearly spilled his coffee in his lap with excitement as he jumped to his feet with seconds to spare before his son barreled into him.

"Parker!" he exclaimed, picking the eleven year-old boy up in his arms as he hugged him tight. "I've missed you so much, bud. You've grown like a weed, you know that?"

Parker grinned, then winced. "You're hurting me, Dad," he squeaked as Booth let go and set him down gently. "I've missed you, too."

Booth smiled, cupping his hand around the back of his son's head as he pulled Parker against his chest, blinking away his tears as his eyes met Brennan's with an irrepressible smile.

"I love you, Parker," he said, tousling his son's unruly, wavy blond hair.

"I love you, too, Dad." The boy turned the Brennan. "Hey, Bones," he said with a familiar-looking grin. "You're back, too."

She nodded. "I went to Afghanistan to help your dad with some important work there," she explained. "We finished our work, and now we're home again." She smiled at Rebecca and shrugged.

"So does that mean you don't have to go back, Dad?" Parker asked. Brennan's eyes flashed as she exchanged a look with her partner.

Booth rubbed his hand over the back of his head as he thought about the errand that awaited them in Philadelphia that night. "That's right, Parks," he said, squeezing his son's shoulder gently. "I'm not going back, bud. No way."

The four of them sat down to breakfast, with Booth diving headfirst back into diner fare with a huge meal comprised of three eggs over medium, bacon, sausage, grits, toast and corned beef hash—the latter justified because they didn't have what he really craved after six months overseas, Pennsylvania-style fried scrapple—and Parker emulating his father's hearty appetite by ordering two eggs, hash browns, bacon, a half-order of biscuits and gravy, and a short stack of pancakes. Brennan and Rebecca shared a look of shrugging resignation as they visualized the Booth boys clogging their arteries in record-setting time.

"He's his father's son," Rebecca said, shooting Booth a narrow-eyed look that gave way to a smile when he stuck his tongue out and waggled it at her, triggering a round of giggles from his son.

"Booth," Brennan chastised him, slapping his hand from across the table. Turning to Rebecca, she added, "He hasn't grown up. He's still very much a little boy."

Arching an eyebrow, Booth regarded Rebecca out of the corner of his eye then gave Brennan a crooked grin. "You know_ that's_ not true, Bones," he said in low voice.

"Okay, you two," Rebecca snickered. "Enough, before you make me ill."

"You should have seen him when he got his cast removed," Brennan said with a twinkle in her eye.

"Bones," Booth protested weakly. "Parks, I think your mom and Bones are ganging up on us."

"Not us, Dad," Parker said. "They're ganging up on _you._"

Booth rolled his eyes. "_Et tu, Brute?" _he asked his son. "I'm so hosed."

* * *

><p>After stopping by Booth's storage unit to retrieve a couple of boxes of his casual clothes, his leather jackets, a couple of suits and—at his insistence—his hockey skates, all of which they loaded into the back of Brennan's Highlander, they proceeded to drive the nearly three hours north to Philadelphia.<p>

They arrived in Philadelphia around mid-afternoon and made their way to the elegant Rittenhouse Hotel, a five-star establishment that, after quite a bit of grumbling on Booth's part, Brennan had convinced him to allow her as the first material indulgence either of them had enjoyed since they had left Washington over seven months earlier. Booth's grumbling was immediately silenced when he opened the door and saw the sumptuous accommodations: a pillowtop king-sized bed, marble bathroom with an oversized tub and separate shower, a 42" flat-screen TV and—what he described as the "cherry on top"—a 13" TV in the bathroom.

"See, Booth?" Brennan said as she watched him make his way through the room like a child at Christmas. "Pretty nice, isn't it?"

"You have no idea some of the shitty accommodations I've had to endure, Bones," he said before, replaying his own words in his head, he realized he was probably wrong. "Well, maybe you do, but anyway."

"Are you referring to the quality of the accommodations I so generously shared with you the last month or so?" she teased him.

"Heh," he chuckled, sidling up behind her as he snaked his hands around her waist. "No," he whispered into her hair. "But that does raise a question."

She twirled around in his arms and raised herself up on her toes to kiss him. "What's that?"

A wicked grin spread across his face. "How did you manage to secure your neighbors' silence and cooperation for all those weeks I lived with you?" he asked, his eyebrow arched playfully.

"How did you keep your hut-mates from turning you in for never being in your quarters?" she retorted with a smirk.

Booth shrugged. "That's easy," he said. "My hut-mates were a bunch of young, unsophisticated truck drivers—you know, privates, specialists and three-stripe sergeants in a transportation company. I told 'em I was a sniper with the Green Berets. They knew I wasn't bullshitting them 'cause I had Special Forces, Ranger and Airborne tabs on my uniform. I told 'em that I was doing all kinds of top-secret hooah shit that they didn't have the security clearance to know about, and then told 'em if they went into my room and touched any of my shit I'd kill 'em." He shrugged with laughter in his brown eyes. "They believed me."

"Intimidating people to get what you want?" she laughed. "That's very untoward, Booth."

He raised his eyebrows and, placing his hands on her hips, pushed her closer to the bed. "So, spill," he said. "How did you manage to convince the thirty other women in that dorm not to turn me in?"

"Let go of me and I'll show you," she said with a glimmer in her pale eyes. Booth's hands fell to his side as he watched her walk over to her rolling black suitcase. She unzipped it, moved some items around, and pulled out a white, waxed-paper bag.

"What's that?" he asked, bringing his hands up to catch the bag as she tossed it to him. He smelled it before he'd even caught it. "Oh, wow," he muttered as he held the bag's rolled-up, taped over end under his nose. "This is the most amazing coffee I've ever smelled. What is it?"

Brennan smiled. "You won't believe me if I told you," she said.

He rolled his eyes. "Well, I'm sure it's good, because it kept those women from saying word one to anybody even though they saw my ugly mug in those halls every day."

"It's _kopi luwak_ coffee," she said simply.

Booth's brow knit in puzzlement. "And that is—?" She smiled at him but said nothing for several seconds. He rolled his eyes again. "Come on, Bones. Spill the beans."

Brennan shook his head. "Even I could tell that was a bad pun, Booth." He glared at her. "_Kopi luwak _is also known as civet coffee. It's a variety of coffee, made from the beans of coffee berries that have been eaten by the Asian Palm Civet, passed through its digestive tract, and excreted out, largely undigested."

"Pooped out?" he coughed. "Seriously?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes," she admitted. "But because the coffee berries pass through the civet's digestive tract, proteolytic enzymes break down the peptides and free amino acids in the coffee, which gives it a smoother, less bitter coffee flavor."

"It smells great," he acknowledged. "Even though the concept is really disgusting."

"We'll have the coffee for breakfast tomorrow and then you can tell me it's not the best damn coffee you've ever had."

He hesitated, then thought of how long it had been since he'd had truly fine, gourmet coffee. "Okay," he agreed. "So you basically bribed them? Your neighbors..."

"Absolutely," she said. "You told me yourself, Booth, that good coffee like Starbucks was worth its weight in gold over there, and you suggested I keep that in mind when trying to, well, motivate people to behave in a constructive manner. _Kopi luwak _sells for over $100 per pound."

"I threatened violence against my hut-mates," he laughed. "And you bribe your neighbors with the world's most expensive poop-coffee."

"An interesting contrast, isn't it?"

"Punishably so," he growled, tossing the bag of coffee onto a nearby table as he pushed her back on the bed. "You wicked, wicked woman…"

"You love my wickedness," she whispered as she felt her back hit the mattress and his weight press against her hips.

"Damn right I do…"

* * *

><p>"Where is he?" Brennan asked, glancing once more towards the door of the pub from their booth in the corner. "It's half-past ten."<p>

Booth drained the last of his pint of Harp—the first freshly-poured pint of beer he had enjoyed since deploying overseas more than a half-year earlier. "Maybe he wants to make me sweat a little," he said. "That, or he's having trouble finding parking." He grinned. "Probably the latter."

"This place is very loud, Booth," Brennan said, leaning close to him and speaking directly into his ear. He turned his head and kissed her on the temple.

"This is the best Irish pub in South Philly, Bones," he said. "I had my first pint here. The bartender was a friend of the family, and he served me the night before I reported for induction into the Army, even though I was only nineteen at the time."

Brennan smiled. "Such a rule-breaker," she whispered into his ear. "You _are _a free-thinking rogue rebel, aren't you? And you always have been."

Booth grinned and flashed his eyebrows, nudging her playfully with his elbow. "You know it." He looked up to find a tall, lanky man in his late forties with graying hair cut a high and tight flat-top standing in front of the table.

"Sergeant Major Booth?" he asked. Booth's expression hardened immediately and he nodded. "I'm Major Langford," he said. "May I sit down?"

Booth pressed his lips together in a firm line and sighed. "Please," he said, gesturing towards the empty space at the far side of the booth. "Thanks for meeting us here."

"Sure, no problem," Langford said, his brow creased as he shook his head. "I'm not sure I understand why you chose here of all places to meet, but…" His voice trailed off as he surveyed the rigid expression on Booth's face.

Reaching behind him, Booth pulled out a manila envelope and laid it on the table in front of Langford. The envelope was nearly an inch thick and was labeled "Copy 1 of 3" in Booth's block printing. Langford narrowed his eyes and opened the envelope, pulling out the thick, binder-clipped stack of papers, glancing at it briefly before setting it down on the table. A waitress walked up to the table and smiled, leaning her tray against her hip expectantly.

"I'll have another Harp," Booth said, turning to Brennan, who nodded. "Make that two." He looked at Langford, who craned his head around to scan the taps behind the bar.

"I'll have a Smithwick's," Langford said. After the waitress walked away, he turned to Booth. "I read the brief report you emailed in. So you're saying the Army's explanation of the Marjeh crash is false, and that the two Chinooks were shot down?"

Booth leaned over the table. "I'm saying that one of the Chinooks was shot down by a surface-to-air weapon, probably a Pakistani-made RPG-7 based on the evidence uncovered during the casualty identification process, and that the damaged Chinook experienced a mechanical failure that caused it to collide with the other one, bringing them both down. And I'm saying that when I brought my concerns to the attention of my commanding officer in the Third Special Forces Group, I was told to drop the subject, stop looking into the matter, or I would be subject to harsh disciplinary action, up to and including bringing me before an Article 32 hearing." He punctuated his last words by poking his index finger into the well-worn wooden tabletop. "The Army's version of events is wrong. It's absolutely false, and the data gathered during the course of the casualty ID process bears that out."

Langford drummed his fingers on top of the thick report. "Well," he began, pausing briefly and opening his mouth to speak as the band in the back of the bar began to play their first set. An accordion player launched into the opening bars of a song before an angry guitar and banjo duo cut loose. Booth smirked and bobbed his head as the singer launched into the first verse.

_I'm a sailor peg  
>And I lost my leg<br>I climbed up the topsails  
>I lost my leg<em>

_I'm shipping up to Boston_

_Whoa oh oh…  
><em>_I'm shipping up to Boston  
>Whoa oh oh…<br>__I'm shipping up to Boston  
>Whoa oh oh…<em>

_I'm shipping off  
>To find my wooden leg!<em>

Brennan arched an eyebrow as she listened to the song, which reminded her of an Irish sea shanty, played with an almost heavy metal or punk aggression.

"Why _did _you have me meet you here, Sergeant Major?" Langford asked, leaning back so the waitress could deliver the beers. "It's loud, it's crowded, and—"

Booth quirked his eyebrow and stared at the major. "Because it's loud, crowded, and nobody from the Army will see me here," he replied. "Except you, obviously." He glanced over at Brennan and added, "Because the fact of the matter is, I'm still not convinced the Army's not gonna try to fuck my ass up for bringing this forward."

"Your paranoia is not going to help matters, Sergeant Major."

"Call me Booth."

Langford sighed. "You need to trust the process or—"

"I trust the evidence," Booth growled. "I trust the evidence and this woman next to me who pulled it all together. And right now, that's about all I trust."

The major shook his head. "Go ahead," he said. "Show me the evidence."

Booth turned to Brennan and nodded for her to proceed to walk the major through the 150-page report, starting with the photographs of the bodies in their as-found condition—broken, burned and intermingled with charred pieces of metal and the crumbled mud-brick of the teahouse and Booth's hideout—and continuing with images of the remains after de-fleshing and reassembly. She noted how injuries visible on the bones with the naked eye or under magnification—each of which were photographed—or via x-ray corresponded to information in the service records of the fallen soldiers. Brennan proceeded to note how some remains showed injuries consistent with that seen in aircraft crashes, low-energy impacts not unlike the kind seen in high-speed automobile collisions. Then she pointed out the more severe, more destructive injuries that could only have been the result of exposure to a high-explosive blast.

She went on to show him the enlarged photographs of the metal slivers found when the most badly-shattered remains were cleaned in the washing soda bath. Langford's eyes narrowed as she pointed out how a couple of the slivers contained writing, enough that the Persian script could be identified as Urdu, suggesting that the high-explosive ammunition was Pakistani in origin.

As she walked Langford through the images, Booth sat there, his eyes falling on the pages of the report but glazing over, his gaze vague and unfocused as he clenched his jaw shut and struggled to keep the tingling burn in his nose from spreading to his eyes. The first sets of images—which for some of the fragmentary remains were, in retrospect, recognizable for who they were, as when he recognized the bushy hair and the freckling of the skin on a piece of forearm—reminded him how, in a strange way, it was probably best that his memory was itself fragmented in the first few days after Brennan's arrival at Bagram. He wondered if, had his memories of his fallen comrades been as clear then as they were after six weeks of recovery, he would have lost his mind picking his friends out of bags of twisted wreckage.

Brennan turned the page to the second to last page of the report package. "The distribution of the two types of injuries—low-energy impact injuries on the one hand and high-explosive blast injuries on the other—correspond perfectly to the assignment of the deceased men to the two aircraft," she explained, her voice even. She resisted the impulse to stop as she felt Booth's hand squeeze her thigh beneath the table, encouraging her to continue despite the clear discomfort he was experiencing. "Of course, we know to which aircraft each of the men of the 160th SOAR was assigned. And Booth provided me a list showing the men of Operational Detachment Alpha 3623 divided into sticks, corresponding to the two teams they used when launching a helicopter-borne assault. The men with the most severe injuries, the ones that from a scientific standpoint could only have resulted from detonation of a high-explosive round, all went out on that mission aboard the same aircraft."

She turned to Booth and took a deep breath, raising her eyebrows to invite him to deliver the punch line. He pursed his lips and sighed, then nodded.

"The only logical explanation," he began. "The only one that makes any sense at all, given the evidence that Dr. Brennan uncovered during the process of ID'ing the…" He closed his eyes and swallowed. "The bodies—is that one of those helicopters was shot out of the sky by a high-explosive, surface-to-air round, in all probability an RPG-7 with ammunition brought in from Pakistan."

Langford looked up and into Booth's hard, darkened eyes. "You sure about this?" he asked.

"Yes," Booth answered. "There is no other explanation possible. The Army's formal explanation is wrong. My men and my officers did _not _die in a mid-air collision due to pilot error. They were killed in action at the hand of the enemy." He felt his temples ache as his jaw tightened further. "My men are KIA. Their families deserve to know that. They deserve the truth."

Brennan slid her hand under the table to rest on his, which still lay on top of her thigh. She stroked her fingertips over the veiny top of his hand, then threaded her fingers between his.

Flipping back through the report casually, Langford shook his head and drummed his fingers on the edge of the table. "I don't know," he said, his voice loud as the band, The Wild Rovers, began another hard-rock rendition of a traditional Irish folk song. "You must know that there will be people at the Pentagon, or at CENTCOM, that are going to question why you would do this."

Booth's face flushed deep red. "We just told you that those two birds crashed because one of them was shot out of the sky by a ground-to-air weapon," he said angrily. "I was the overwatch position on that mission. My job was to keep an eye on the situation on the ground and provide cover for the insertion operation." His nostrils flared as he stared into Langford's blinking blue eyes. "I just told you that I failed to do what I was supposed to do—to protect that insertion operation from a ground-based threat. Why the _fuck _would I want to admit that if it wasn't fucking true?" he asked, pounding his fist on the table. "Huh? Why the _fuck _would I do that? Major, my life would be a hell of a lot fucking happier if I could just forget about all this and live in a blissful state of ignorance knowing that those twenty-one guys died because the _pilots _fucked up, and not because the overwatch failed to see a threat."

"That's not what I meant," Langford said weakly.

Booth's brow knit low and hard over his dark eyes. "The fuck it isn't," he growled. "I finished first in my class at the U.S. Army Sniper School. I finished near the top of my class at Ranger School, and again at SWCS. I'm a great fucking soldier, Major. You don't think it doesn't tear me the fuck apart to think that the one time it really fucking mattered, I wasn't able to get the damn job done and protect my guys?"

"Look, that's—"

Brennan leaned against her partner's shoulder. "Booth," she whispered.

"No, Bones," he muttered, keeping his stare leveled at the IG officer. "No rational person in my position, knowing what I know, having done all that I've done, would have made this kind of shit up if it wasn't true. And the fact of the matter is, you don't have to believe _me_. I'm just the pigeon carrying the message. The evidence is what matters. To hell with me. Focus on the evidence. "

Langford nibbled the inside of his lip, glancing over his shoulder at the band playing in the back.

_'Twas England bade our wild geese go, that 'small nations might be free'  
>Their lonely graves are by Suvla's waves or the fringe of the great North Sea.<br>Oh, had they died by Pearse's side or fought with Cathal Brugha  
>Their graves we'd keep where the Fenians sleep, 'neath the shroud of the foggy dew…<em>

"I got a phone call just before I got here," he said, taking a long, hearty sip of his Smithwick's and leaning over the table. "From a gentleman at NBC News named Steve Marx." He cocked his head and raised an eyebrow as he narrowed his eyes, gauging the response to his revelation. "That's why I was late."

Booth's eyes widened and his face paled. "I didn't give them anything," he said defensively. "I swear. The other two copies of that report are in our possession." In fact, one was outside in Brennan's Highlander, and the other locked in a safe deposit box at Brennan's bank in Georgetown.

"I never said you did," Langford said. "We've known for a while that NBC has somebody that's been feeding them information from inside the IG."

Booth blinked. "So what now?" he asked, a waver suddenly in his voice as he wrapped his fingers around the sweaty curve of his half-empty pint glass.

"I'm taking this up the chain," Langford replied. "I'm just an investigator. It's not up to me what happens after I issue my report."

The band's tempo slowed and the volume dropped as the vocalist sang the last verse of the song.

_As back through the glen I rode again and my heart with grief was sore  
>For I parted then with valiant men whom I never shall see more<br>But to and fro in my dreams I go and I kneel and pray for you,  
>For slavery fled, O glorious dead, when you fell in the foggy dew.<em>

Brennan rolled her eyes. "I assume," she said quietly, holding her glass up to admire the way the dim bar lighting shone through the amber lager. "Now that the Congressional midterm elections are behind us, Major, that the political repercussions of any announcements on this subject would be, well, less severe than they would have been three or four weeks ago."

Booth sucked in a sharp breath but said nothing, his eyes fixed on the major's, whose pupils pulsed in response to Brennan's words.

"I can't comment on that," he said.

Booth raised his glass and swallowed the last third of his beer in a single gulp before slamming the glass on the table. "Whatever," he grunted, tossing a twenty dollar bill on the table. He stood up and grabbed his black leather jacket from the seat next to him. Brennan hesitated for a moment, then stood up and grabbed her white, hip-length trench coat.

And then, without so much as another word, they walked out.

* * *

><p><strong>AN****: **_Hmmm. Interesting_.

_Did any of you guess that little linkage based on the calendar of events I hinted at (e.g. the World Series) that placed the events of this fic in the October/November 2010 timeframe? Or did the clever monkey surprise you with that one?_

_What's gonna happen now? _

**:: cue dramatic music ::**

_You'll find out soon. K2B has two chapters plus an epilogue left to go._

_Please don't read and run. Tell me what you think about what happened in this chapter. Leave me a review._

_I'm dying here, folks._


	32. Sole Survivor

**Killing Two Birds**

**By:** dharmamonkey  
><strong>Rated:<strong> M  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> _Hart Hanson owns _Bones_. But people like me who play in his sandbox give you all those delicious little moments that Hart and friends leave out. In this case, AU do-overs for that gap between Seasons 5 and 6 that wrought so much havoc for our heroes. That's why you read fanfic._

* * *

><p><strong><span>AN:**

1) **Acronyms/terminology: **_A reviewer noted that I use some acronyms/lingo the meaning of which may not be immediately evident. Here are some you'll want to take note of because they show up in this chapter:_

**RPG: **_Rocket-propelled grenade (the "stone" that "killed" the two "birds")_

**CENTCOM:**_ U.S. Central Command is a theater-level joint (multi-branch) unit of the U.S. armed forces based in Tampa, Florida that controls strategy and high-level tactics for an area of responsibility that includes countries in the Middle East, North Africa, and Central Asia, most notably Afghanistan and Iraq_

**Southie: **_Slang term for South Boston, a part of the city that is historically Irish _

2) **Reader thanks: **_I wrote this piece because in Booth and Brennan, I saw a way to share with my readers the struggles that our servicemen and servicewomen face in fighting the wars we send them to fight for us, and the suffering that they and their families must endure when the fighting is over. From the reviews I have received, it seems I have been able to reach a lot of people with that message. I've been honored and humbled by the interest and feedback this story has received over the last couple of months. If you've been lurking (reading without leaving a review or chatting me up on Twitter, **_dharmamonkey**), then you really should let me know what you think. Come on. I'll give you a squeeworthy epilogue if you do…_

3) **Kleenex warning: **_If you're inclined to get misty, this chapter might have that affect. You've been duly warned._

_So, anyways—alright, without further ado, let's go back to Booth's hometown of Philadelphia._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 32: Sole Survivor<strong>

* * *

><p>Booth sat up in bed, rubbed his eyes lazily with the heels of his hands and sighed. He heard the unmistakable <em>hum-click <em>of the electronic key as the door opened to reveal Brennan walking in with a bottle of water in one hand, a sweat-damp youth-sized Phillies cap in the other and a newspaper tucked under her arm. She walked in, letting the heavy hotel room door close behind her with an authoritative _thunk. _Booth squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, trying to chase away the blurriness of sleep. He saw she was dressed for a run, clad in stretchy jogging pants, a zip-up windbreaker and a pair of Nikes. A flash of disappointment passed through him as he realized how much fun it would have been had they jogged together through his hometown.

"You're up early," he said, his voice low and gravelly.

She smiled and set her bottle of water down on the nightstand table before sitting on the edge of the bed. "You slept in, Booth," she said. "It's half-past ten."

His brows crumpled in confusion. "Seriously?" he said, reaching over to grab his Android phone off the nightstand to check the time. "Damn, it is." He arched an eyebrow as he saw that he had four missed calls: Cam, Wendell, Jared, and a fourth from a number in the 917 area code he didn't recognize.

"What is it?" Brennan asked.

Booth shook his head. "I got all these missed calls, and one of 'em's from New York," he said, a frown coming to his face as he suddenly thought of Darleen Bastone. "Damn." He held his phone in the palm of his hand and stared at it.

"Do you think it's—?"

He shrugged with a heavy sigh. "I don't know. I thought I programmed her number in here, but maybe she's calling from her home phone…" His voice trailed off as he thought of Darleen Bastone, widowed with a six year-old boy and a six week-old little girl who would never know her father, and his jaw clenched at the thought. "917 is an overlay area code for all five boroughs, so it could be Brooklyn."

He shrugged.

"How are you doing, Booth?" Brennan asked, her pale eyes soft and open as she pursed her lips in expectation of his answer, forcing a faint smile as she looked into his tired, glassy eyes.

Booth closed his eyes and grunted. "I feel like I've been run over by a freight train," he said in a low voice. "Like I'm hungover, except I know I'm not, 'cause I only had two beers last night."

Brennan cocked her head sympathetically as she reached for his arm, rubbing her fingers over the three-inch pink scar in the middle of his right forearm. "I'm sorry, Booth," she said quietly. "I'll put on some of that _kopi luwak _coffee for us. I could use some caffeine, too."

He sat in bed, his knees drawn up towards his chest as the sheets covered his legs, and his eyes followed her into the living area of their suite. A smile broke across his face as he watched her stand at the suite's wet bar, setting up the coffee maker and pouring some of the fresh-ground gourmet coffee into the filter cup. His head ached and he realized how dry his mouth felt. With a soft groan, he reached over and snatched the water bottle off her nightstand. Booth took a long swig and thought about the encounter in Paul Duffy's Pub the night before.

"Bones," he called to her.

Brennan walked back into the bedroom as the tell-tale hums and drips of the coffeemaker sounded behind her. "What is it, Booth?" she asked, sitting down on the edge of the bed—the right side of the bed, which, she noted with a smile, had become _her _side of the bed.

"You know last night," he began, raising his eyebrows the way she knew he always did when he was making some kind of confession. "I was kind of playing to the crowd a little, you know."

Her brows furrowed in confusion. "I don't know what that means," she said.

He sighed. "I mean, when I said some of those things last night about how I blame myself for what happened to my guys—you know, when I went off a bit on that major—I was being a bit melodramatic."

"Why?" Brennan asked quietly, pulling off her running shoes and climbing onto the bed to take her seat next to him, a folded-up paper in her lap.

He leaned over and kissed her sweaty forehead, letting his lips linger against her skin as he considered his answer. "Because," he whispered. "I wanted that guy—who I'm fairly sure has never seen the kind of combat I've seen—to understand that I have no reason to bring this thing forward for any self-interested purpose. You know what I mean? I don't benefit personally in any way from bringing this thing forward. In fact, it's the opposite—I'm better off accepting the Army's story as true, because that way there's no possible way for me to feel any personal blame for the…" His voice trailed off. "I've talked about all this, with Gordon Gordon and Hank, and I'm okay with it. I don't blame myself." He swallowed. "I mean, not really," he said, wincing slightly as he heard himself hedge.

Brennan's eyes narrowed. "You're not to blame," she whispered, stroking the side of his face with the back of her hand. "Not for any of it, Booth. You know that, right?"

"I know," he replied. "I know. But last night, I had to put myself in that place—that really bad, dark place I was in before, when I blamed myself for not seeing the guy with the RPG, or for not being able to keep Hank from getting hurt, you know—I had to go to that place, to put myself there so I could make that major think that's where I was." He fell silent for a moment. "And it was kind of exhausting, even though it was all an act."

"I'm sure it was," Brennan said, bringing her hand down and rubbing the round of his knee, which was covered by a luxuriously high thread-count sateen sheet. "I can only imagine."

Several long moments passed in silence between them before she raised her head, took a deep breath and glanced down at the newspaper in her lap. "There's something you need to see, Booth," she said, her voice heavy with gravity. She unfolded the newspaper and handed it to him.

At first, he blinked, as if unable to believe his eyes, then he rattled the paper in his hands and shook his head. He stared at the front page of the _New York Times _and saw a large color photograph of himself, taken on the tarmac at Bagram. The photo showed him from waist up, his hand resting, palm down, on the top of Lou Bastone's flag-draped aluminum transfer case, his green beret-clad head lowered so his forehead nearly touched the flag. Above the image was a headline in large bold type—_Brooklyn Hero Comes Home—_with a subtitle in slightly smaller, unbolded typeface: _Special Forces Soldier Was One of 21 Killed in Helmand Crash. _A caption beneath the photograph of Booth read, _A comrade of U.S. Army First Sergeant Louis A. Bastone, himself the sole survivor of the tragic crash, says an emotional goodbye at Bagram Air Base before accompanying the fallen hero on his final journey home._ Booth let the paper fall from his hands and he leaned back against his pillow, covering his face with his hands and shaking his head. He leaned his head back and sighed, trying to keep himself above the flood of emotions that seemed to surge over him in that moment. His eyes glistened with tears as he looked at the photograph again and swallowed.

"Aw, Jesus," he whispered, his head falling to his chest.

Brennan watched his reaction and turned to him, opening her arms to embrace him as he nearly melted into her. He rested his head on her shoulder and relaxed into her touch as she cupped the back of his head with her hand, stroking her thumb gently over the short, fuzzy brown hair there. "Shhhh," she whispered as she felt him begin to tremble. "It's okay."

"What's it like for her?" he croaked. "For Darleen, seeing that on the front page? She lives in friggin' New York. Why do they have to do that? It's totally unnecessary. They should give the poor woman some space, for God's sake."

For a few seconds, Brennan felt as if her heart had stopped. A sudden realization dawned on her as she felt her partner's hands rub up and down her back as a shudder passed through him. "Booth," she whispered. "Booth—I thought of something." She felt his jaw muscles tighten against her shoulder, then relax a little before he pulled away from her embrace.

"What?" he asked, blinking away the glistening dampness in his eyes. "What is it?"

She looked at the photograph of him on the center of the front page. Several million Americans would by now have seen that image—an image which would have been moving even if the viewer did not know the mourning soldier depicted in it, or the fallen one whose remains lay inside of the flag-draped container—and millions more would see it before the day was done as the paper's national edition sold out in cities like Chicago, Dallas, Denver and Los Angeles, and the image occupied a prominent place on the opening page of the paper's much-read website.

"Booth," she said softly. "I know this sounds strange, but this is a huge help to you." His eyes snapped to hers and narrowed, his mouth forming a firm line as his jaw remained hard and tense. "Millions of people know your face," she explained. "I know you hate that idea, but think about it—the Army can't do anything bad to you now without the risk of bad press for itself."

"Oh, God," he groaned, covering half of his face with his hand. "This isn't how—"

Brennan glanced over toward the window for several seconds and then back again. "Booth," she said. "This might be intentional—by that I mean, maybe it isn't a coincidence that Steve Marx called the IG last night before your meeting with him, and that the following morning a photograph of you is published on the front page of the _Times._"

"Are you saying they're protecting me by putting my face out there?" he asked, his voice cloaked with doubt.

Brennan shrugged. "I'm saying that's a possibility," she replied. "And even if that wasn't their intent, the fact of the matter is I think it's now more difficult for the Army to—using your words—fuck you up."

"Why would they do that?" he asked, rubbing his thumb in a small circle over his temple to sooth his ever-tightening tension headache.

She raised her eyebrows. "I'm not very good with these kind of things, Booth," she said. "Understanding why people do the things that they do. What their motives are. You're the one who's more tuned in to _realpolitik." _ She reached over and squeezed his hand. "I'm not sure, but if it helps protect you from retaliatory action on the part of the Army, and make sure the truth is told about the crash in Marjeh, then it's ultimately a good thing, right?"

Booth's features relaxed and he grinned. "That sounds pretty_ realpolitik_ to me there, Bones." The coffeemaker beeped to signal the end of the brewing cycle. "If that coffee tastes half as good as if smells, I don't care whether it's brewed from elephant turds, it's gonna be freakin' awesome."

Brennan snickered and got up, walking into the suite's living area. "You'll love it," she said, retrieving two hotel-branded mugs from the wet bar and pouring two cups. She glanced around the bar and found two small servings of liquid creamer.

Throwing the sheets off of him, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and took a measured breath. He stood up, grabbed a pair of boxers from his duffel bag and quickly stepped into them before following Brennan into the living room. He glanced out the window and noted the chunks of blue sky peeking between the clouds. "Looks like it might be a nice day," he said. "Maybe we'll go check out my old neighborhood before we head back, huh?" He sat down on the sofa and stared absently out the window, lost in thought.

Brennan smiled at the raised brows that gave him a boyishly expectant expression that she had never been able to resist. "Sure, Booth," she said. "I'd like that." After handing Booth one of the steaming cups and the two creamers, she raised her cup to her nose and took a big whiff before sitting down on the sofa next to him. She watched him dump the two little creamers into the cup and stir, then cocked her head as he brought the cup to his lips.

He smirked as he watched her watching him. "What?" he whispered as he took a sip of the coffee, savoring its flavor in his mouth before swallowing. "Oh, jeez," he said. "You weren't kiddin'. Damn, that's good coffee."

"I told you," she said with a wide smile. "It's the best I ever had."

Booth arched an eyebrow and cracked a half-grin. "Yeah," he snorted. "With coffee like this, you probably could've been running a meth ring out of your quarters and your neighbors would have kept their lips zipped."

Brennan glared at him. "That's a slight exaggeration," she said. "But, yes, this is exceptionally good coffee. Which is why, in part, it's exceptionally expensive."

"Mmmm," he murmured as he took another sip. "This is incredible. I mean, wow."

She smiled, glad to see him happy after all of what he had been through—and what they'd both been through—in the previous five weeks. She reached over and rubbed her hand on his thigh, leaning her head against his arm. "I'm glad you like it, Booth."

"Thanks, Bones," he said. He turned to her and kissed her forehead, his lips lingering on her skin for a few seconds before the tender moment was interrupted by the ring of his phone in the bedroom. He set his cup down and jogged over to his nightstand.

He looked at the number on the screen: _917-402-8367. _He met Brennan's gaze and shrugged as he answered the call.

"Booth," he grunted.

"Sergeant Major Booth," the caller said. "This is Steve Marx of NBC News." Booth's eyes immediately narrowed and he silently mouthed _NBC _to Brennan as he walked back into the living room.

"Hi," he said reticently.

"CENTCOM is going to be issuing a statement at noon today," he began. "The press release is going to confirm that the crash of the two U.S. Army MH-47E Chinook helicopters early last month in Marjeh was the result of an insurgent attack. The twenty-one American troops killed in action in that attack will be honored posthumously with Purple Hearts, as will the one soldier who survived the attack."

Booth swallowed but said nothing, his mouth gaping open as he tried to process what he had just heard.

"I wanted you to know about this before you heard it on the airwaves," Marx said.

Booth took a breath. "I…I don't understand," he stammered. "Is this because of—"

Marx cleared his throat. "The Army's story never held together right," he said, a vague hesitation in his voice. "Something about it was always—well, how shall I say it?—hinky. We did some talking to folks who were on the ground at the time—"

"Who?" Booth asked impulsively.

"Unnamed sources," Marx replied. "But they never gave us enough to enable us to run with the story, or to put any useful pressure on DOD."

Booth's brow furrowed, hanging low over his eyes as he flexed his fist, trying to ignore the prickly tingle that was creeping across his palm. "Are you saying—?"

"Yes," Marx said, answering Booth's unasked question. "The report that you submitted to the Inspector General, together with the information we had from…others…was enough to pressure the Army to revise its story."

"I don't know what to say," Booth whispered.

"You don't need to say anything," Marx said. "I just wanted you to be one of the first people to find out. The press release is expected be issued around noon and I expect MSNBC, CNN, BBC and the other 24-hour news outlets will throw it up on the air immediately."

Booth walked over to the window and stared out, stunned and a little puzzled by the rapid turn of events. "That photo of me," he croaked, his voice uneven as he spoke. "Was that part of your plan?"

For a moment, the line was silent. "You make it sound nefarious," Marx said. "The photo was run to outflank any attempt by DOD or CENTCOM to attack the source of the information." He paused, waiting for Booth to interject. "It was to protect you."

"And to protect the story," Booth added, his voice dark and sharp with sarcasm. "Right?"

"It was both, to be honest," Marx said. "My job is to see that the truth gets out there. The Army was concealing the truth—concealing it from the families of your fallen comrades and from the American people who deserve to know what's really happening in this war. If publishing that photo of you gave you a bit of cover from the powers-that-be that might want to cast doubt on the veracity of your story by attacking you personally, well, then yes—doing so benefited the ultimate social purpose of getting the truth out." Booth heard Marx take a deep breath. "I like you, Sergeant Major. I admire the moxie you showed in that meeting with the MPs and your colonel. You're a good man, and I didn't want to see you take a beating for wanting to get the truth out."

"Thanks," Booth said, the hardness falling away from his voice as he turned back to his partner. "I'm not a spotlight kind of guy, you know, but —"

"I know that, Sergeant Major," Marx said with a vague laugh. "But it was for your own good, and for the greater good." Marx paused for a beat. "Besides, you look really good in Class-A's and you're very photogenic. The _Times _photographer that took the shot told me he knew his editor would put it front and center as soon as he dialed you in on his telephoto. An ugly guy would've made it a closer call in the editorial room, but your good looks made it a no-brainer."

Booth snorted. "Okay," he said. "Now you're making me blush."

"I have to go, Sergeant Major," Marx said. "I just wanted to make sure you weren't surprised when you heard the news. You're a brave man for doing what you did, Booth. Even if you're never recognized for it, you've done your comrades and your country a great service, pushing for the truth."

"Thanks," Booth replied gratefully.

"No, thank _you_," Marx said. "Have a good day, Sergeant Major."

Then he hung up.

* * *

><p>Booth stood in the shower, his head arched back as the hard spray pummeled his chest. He reached for the tiny bottle of the hotel's complimentary shower gel, poured a little onto the washcloth and rubbed it in. He had forgotten how the water in Philadelphia was a little hard, and so it took a bit of effort to get a good lather going. He scrubbed his chest with the soapy washcloth and tried to focus only on the way the cotton terry felt against his wet skin, attempting to empty his racing mind of all other thoughts.<p>

It had been a hell of a three days for him, and he was hoping that a relaxing shower together with the nice caffeine buzz from Brennan's magic _kopi luwak _coffee would put his mind in a good place.

He set the washcloth aside and rinsed the soap off his chest as his mind drifted off again.

"_Hey," Kennedy said as he lathered up under the shower next to Booth. "Sorry about the other day. I was just pokin' ya, ya know."_

"_I know," Booth replied, arching an eyebrow as he turned into the hot stream of water. "I'm from Philly, pal—I can take whatever you dish out. Just remember, I'll serve it back to you in spades."_

"_You're from Philly?" Kennedy asked, rubbing a nickel-sized dot of shampoo through his high and tight crew cut hair. "My mom lives in Philly."_

_Booth washed under his armpits, then turned to Kennedy as he rinsed the soap off. "I thought you were from Southie," he said._

_Kennedy laughed. "Well, I am," he said, "but my mom moved to Philly about ten years ago to be closer to my brother Mickey and my sister-in-law, who moved down there. I'm never around anyway, so—"_

"_Philly?" Bastone snorted, butting in from the other side of Kennedy. "She moved too far south. Brooklyn's where it's at, baby."_

"_Shut up, Bastone," Booth and Kennedy said in unison, then they both laughed. _

"_What part of Philly she live in?" Booth asked, his Philly accent edging into his voice at the thought of his old stomping grounds. _

"_Heh," Kennedy chuckled. "Devil's Pocket—near Lombard and 24th."_

"_No shit?" Booth asked, turning the knob to turn off the shower. "That's like five blocks from where I lived in junior high and high school. I ran all over that neighborhood when I was a kid. Had a paper route in the mornings that went up and down 24th Street from Bainbridge up to Walnut and down 23rd again. God, I know that area like the back of my hand. What'dya know? Huh."_

"_Huh," Kennedy grunted as he turned off the water. _

Booth cut off the water and scratched his head, then pulled the shower curtain open and walked into the vanity area to find his partner standing in front of the mirror putting on mascara. He wrapped his towel around his waist, then sidled up behind her and kissed the side of her neck.

"I'm looking forward to seeing your old neighborhood, Booth," she said, squirming a little as he squeezed her hips with his damp hands.

"Me, too, Bones" he said, a touch of seriousness in his voice despite the smile that curved his lips. "Me, too."

* * *

><p>Booth and Brennan walked down the sidewalk, side by side, past block after block of non-descript red brick rowhouses as he pointed out various houses and businesses along the way. The Devil's Pocket neighborhood was one of South Philadelphia's smaller neighborhoods, tucked near some industrial parks a stone's throw from the Schuylkill River. The neighborhood was historically Irish, and even the area's traditional name reflected that heritage—it being said that the term originated with an Irish priest who said the neighborhood children were so derelict that they would steal a chain out of the Devil's pocket—and while the area had gentrified somewhat and its demographics had, like much of that of South Philadelphia, had shifted over the years, the neighborhood still had a large Irish-American population.<p>

"This place," Booth said, pointing to a barbershop on the corner with _Mickey's _written in bright green, orange-outlined letters in the window, "used to be 'Enzo's' and was run by this Italian guy. Pops always used to go there. When Jared and I moved from Pittsburgh to live with Pops, we'd always get our haircuts here. I got my hair cut here before I went into the Army—got a real hardcore high and tight before I went off to Basic Training."

Brennan smiled. "I'm glad I get to see these places," she said. "It's like all these places, all these experiences add up to make you, well, _you._"

Booth flashed his eyebrows and put his arm around her, pulling her close and kissing the top of her head. "I'm glad I get to show you these places," he said. He glanced up at the address on a rowhouse and snapped his fingers, digging into his pocket and pulling out a folded up piece of hotel stationery. Reading the address, he pointed and said, "It should be the third one down on the right here."

She pressed her lips into a firm line and nodded, reaching for Booth's left hand and, holding it between hers, squeezing it as they arrived at the concrete steps that led up to the house.

"Ready?" he asked, as much for himself as for her benefit.

"Yes," she whispered.

Booth took a long, deep breath, exhaling through rounded lips, then bounded up the stairs. He rang the doorbell, snaking his arm around Brennan's waist as they waited for someone to answer. They heard the deadbolt open with a _clack _and a chain rattle before the door opened to reveal a silver-haired woman in her late sixties who stared at Booth and Brennan with a crinkled brow.

"Who are you?" she asked, her voice tinged with a faint brogue.

"Mrs. Kennedy?" Booth asked. "I'm Seeley Booth. I served with your son David in Afghanistan."

She stared at him and blinked, but said nothing. A voice called out from inside the house. "Ma, who is it?"

Mrs. Kennedy turned around and answered, "Some lad named 'Sheeley Booth.' Says he served with Davey in Afghanistan." A few seconds of silence passed as the pair stood awkwardly on the front stoop of the brick rowhouse. "My daughter-in-law says you can come in."

Booth and Brennan exchanged reciprocal arched brows and walked into the foyer of the narrow house. They were led into the front room, which was furnished much like Booth's grandmother kept the front room of their home just a few blocks away, with white linen drapes, old but well-made Georgian-style furniture with sun-faded floral patterns on the seats and chair-backs, an imitation Oriental carpet covering the well-worn hardwood floors, and an old but serviceable television in the corner near the front wall which blared on at a low volume, tuned to CNN. On the walls, Mrs. Kennedy kept framed prints of pastoral scenes which, judging by the descriptions beneath each scene, seemed to primarily depict landscapes in the counties of Tipperary, Kilkenny and Limerick, which Brennan noted were all in the south-central part of Ireland.

"Please, sit," Mrs. Kennedy said, gesturing towards two chairs. Booth and Brennan took their seats. "You knew my son?" the woman asked Booth.

"Yes, ma'am," Booth said, straightening himself in the chair. "He and I were in the same Special Forces unit over there." He paused, about to say more when Kennedy's wife, Shelly, walked in from the kitchen with a tray and four cups of coffee. "In Afghanistan."

"You're Booth," Shelly said, setting the tray down on the mahogany coffee table in the middle of the room. "David told me a lot about you in his letters." She turned to Brennan, offering her hand as she introduced herself. "I'm Shelly Kennedy, Master Sergeant Kennedy's wife."

Booth smiled as Brennan and Shelly shook hands. "I'm sorry," he said. "This is my partner, Temperance Brennan."

"Nice to meet you, Temperance," Shelly said quietly.

"Likewise," Brennan said with a smile.

"Brennan?" Mrs. Kennedy said. "That's a good Irish name." Booth looked at Brennan with a sheepish grin and shrugged.

"Thank you," Brennan said with a faint smile.

Shelly took her seat across from Booth and gestured towards the coffee service. "Please, help yourselves," she said. Booth reached for a cup, pouring in a little cream before sitting back in his chair. "We saw the news announcement," she said evenly. "I assume you heard."

"Yes," Booth said solemnly. "I'm sorry about David. He was a good guy and an excellent soldier. One of the best assault-team leaders I ever had."

Shelly Kennedy nodded, staring into her coffee for a few moments as she took a deep breath. "It's been nearly six weeks," she said. "That's a lot of time to get used to the idea of losing your husband. And just when you kind of think you got your head wrapped around it all, they come out with something like this and it's like it's all raw again."

"I'm sorry," Booth said. "I…I wish the facts could have come out all at once, but…" His voice trailed off as he realized this was not how he thought this kind of conversation—as if he had ever really prepared himself to have this kind of conversation with a comrade's widow—would have gone. "I'm sorry."

Shelly took a modest sip of coffee and shook her head. "No, it's not that, it's just—I don't know if I can explain it. It's just like they ripped the scab off a wound that was just starting to heal."

Booth sipped his coffee and wondered how to fill the silence that fell between the four of them. He glanced over at his partner, who sat quietly, her pale eyes full of sympathy but her mouth held firmly closed, unsure of what to say. Their eyes met and he smiled briefly as if to say to her, _Bones, I don't have any idea what I'm doing either. _

"Kennedy and I would go to chapel together," Booth said. "We weren't the only Catholic guys in the unit, but we were the only two that went to mass regularly. I got to know him pretty well over the course of the six months we served together."

"He mentioned you a lot in his letters," Shelly said. She turned to her mother-in-law. "Ma, Booth's a Philly boy. He went to Saint Joseph's 'round the corner."

Booth smiled, remembering the conversation he'd had with Kennedy on the way to chapel one Sunday when Kennedy had informed him that he would not be invited over for Christmas at the family compound. _This isn't exactly what I'd had in mind for a family visit, _he noted grimly.

Mrs. Kennedy looked up, her gaze indistinct as she blinked away a daze. "A good Catholic boy, aye?"

Booth grinned and shrugged. "I try," he said, adding in a quieter tone with a wink in Shelly's direction, "though some days I'm more successful than others."

The foursome fell into another awkward silence when Mrs. Kennedy slowly got up. "I'm quite tired, Shelly," she said. "I'm going to take a wee nap." Booth stood up. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Booth," she said, nodding in Booth's direction. "And you, Miss Brennan." She disappeared up the stairs.

"She hasn't taken this most recent news very well," Shelly whispered as she listened to her mother-in-law's footsteps walk into the bedroom above them. After a moment, she added, "I guess none of us are." She emptied her coffee cup and set it on the tray. "She thinks the Army knew all along what happened and that they only recently got caught in a lie. I told her that there was no way to know that, and that it was just probably one of those things where they had to wait for all the facts to come in."

"Yeah," Booth said non-committally.

Shelly sighed. "Did David suffer?" she asked, her eyes glistening with emotion and her lip quivering. "When he…"

Booth turned to Brennan, then back to Shelly. "No," he replied, swallowing the hard lump that had formed in his throat at hearing her question. "He was killed instantly when the RPG hit." He gritted his teeth and sucked in a breath to keep his own emotions under control.

Shelly nodded. "Were you hurt?" she asked, her tearful eyes open and sympathetic.

Booth opened his mouth to speak, but hesitated. He set his coffee down on the table and rubbed the back of his head, then sighed. "I was on the ground," he explained. "Inserted ahead of time to observe the—well, the guys we were after, you know—and the RPG that…" His voice trailed off, but Shelly's raised eyebrows and the slight nod of her head encouraged him to continue. "The RPG that hit the helicopter that David was in was fired from behind my position, passed over the building I was in and…" He turned away, closing his eyes as his nostrils burned with threatening tears. Brennan leaned forward and gently touched his knee with her hand. "It hit David's Chinook, which lost control and collided with the other Chinook. David's unit crashed onto the building I was observing, and the other unit crashed into the building I was in."

"You were hurt?" she asked again, noting the unusual way Booth flexed and unflexed his right fist.

"I broke my arm pretty bad, dislocated my shoulder, got all cut up, and had a pretty bad concussion." He straightened his right arm and wiggled his fingers as another flash of nerve pain seared over his elbow, along the side of his forearm into his palm. "I'm scheduled for surgery late next week at Walter Reed to fix a messed-up nerve in my arm."

"You getting out?" she asked, her eyes darting over to Brennan then back to Booth.

_As soon as humanly possible, _Booth thought to himself, squeezing his right hand tightly in his left, trying to massage away the pain. "I signed on for a year," he said. "I'm not reenlisting."

"I don't blame you," Shelly said. "Not one bit."

Booth glanced over at the clock on the far wall, just over the TV set. Shelly's eyes followed his, then came to rest on the TV screen, where a story on the Helmand crash and the Army's announcement was on the screen, the narration murmuring in the background. "I'm sorry," she whispered as she picked up the remote and clicked the TV off. "Ma keeps it on all the time as a matter of habit, but I can't stand it anymore."

Reaching into the inside pocket of his leather jacket, Booth pulled out an envelope. "I, uh…" He looked at the envelope, turning it over in his hand before handing it to her. "I wrote this for you," he said. "I'm sorry—it wasn't until this morning that I remembered that David's mom lived here in Philly, and, umm." He shrugged. "My memory's been kinda screwed up since the crash and—I'm sorry. I didn't realize, um…"

Shelly smiled gently as she accepted the envelope. "It's okay," she said. "I understand. David's memory gave him a lot of trouble after his Humvee hit an IED in Ba'qubah in '05. It took a while for it all to come back."

Booth nodded. "Okay," he said.

Holding up the envelope, Shelly said, "I'll save this for sometime when—I don't know. I'll save it for later."

"I understand," Booth said, standing up. "Look, I don't want to keep you any longer. I just wanted to stop in and express my sympathy and let you know—well, that I'll really miss David."

Shelly stepped forward and pulled Booth into an embrace. "Thank you for coming over," she said. "And for all that you did for David." She hugged him tightly then pulled away. "David really respected you," she said. "Said you were a royal pain in his ass sometimes." She laughed, a tear falling from her eye before she wiped it away with the back of her hand. "But he really liked you and spoke highly of you in his letters. I'm glad you came over."

She walked them out into the foyer and they exchanged phone numbers.

"Thanks for coming over," she said. "You don't know how much it means to me." Booth nodded with a firm-lipped smile and squeezed Shelly's upper arm, but said nothing as he followed Brennan out the door. He stopped at the edge of the stoop and turned around. "Kennedy was a good guy," he said. "I'll miss him."

"I know," Shelly said, her eyes meeting Brennan's as the two exchanged a look of silent understanding.

"You've got my number," he said. "If there's anything—you know, I mean _anything_, just let me know."

"Thanks, Sergeant Major," she said.

"Booth," he said. "Just call me Booth."

"Okay, Booth," she said with a smile, watching the pair hold hands as they walked down the steps and onto the sidewalk. She followed them for a moment before they rounded the corner, then glanced skyward before closing the door behind her.

* * *

><p><strong>AN****: **_Alright, so all those loose ends are just about tied up. You got another Boothy flashback with Kennedy and snarkster-in-chief and Booth-pal Bastone, plus some sweet B&B time and an emotional meeting with his comrade's mother and widow. And, wow, Booth's strange relationship with the press—did that surprise anyone?_

_K2B has one more chapter plus an epilogue left to go. You probably know what's coming next. It's time to lay First Sergeant and Booth-pal Lou Bastone to rest. Next chapter will be emotional. (I'm not even sure if anyone would believe me if I told you a chapter was not-emotional.)_

_In any case, I'm really curious what you thought of this one._

_Please don't read and run. Tell me what you think about what happened in this chapter. Leave me a review._

_I'm dying here, folks._


	33. Moving Forward

**Killing Two Birds**

* * *

><p><strong>By:<strong> dharmamonkey  
><strong>Rated:<strong> M  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> _Hart Hanson owns _Bones_. But people like me who play in his sandbox give you all those delicious little moments that Hart and friends leave out. In this case, AU do-overs for that gap between Seasons 5 and 6 that wrought so much havoc for our heroes. That's why you read fanfic._

* * *

><p><strong><span>AN:**

1) **Thanks:** _Here's a shout-out to three of my pals, my Hugely Helpful Betas (HHBs) _**Lesera128 **_and _**AvaniHeath**_, and my Brilliant Late-Night Brainstormer (BLNB) _**Jasper777**_. These three ladies helped the monkey get through this chapter, which was somewhat challenging to write._

2) **Kleenex Warning**_: No, not because this is the 2nd to last installment of the story (though the idea makes me admittedly a little misty). No, it's because this chapter has some heavy, heavy emotional stuff—both the cry-cuz-you're-sad kind and the cry-cuz-you're-happy kind. Be prepared. Consider yourself warned._

_So, anyways—alright, without further ado, let's go back to Booth's hometown of Philadelphia._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 33: Moving Forward<strong>

* * *

><p>After leaving the Kennedys' home in the Devil's Pocket section of South Philly, Booth and Brennan began the long drive back to Washington.<p>

Brennan assumed the driving duties without even a token protest from Booth, who slept nearly the whole way back, utterly exhausted by the intensely swinging pendulum of emotions he'd endured since waking up four days earlier and donning his Service Dress Blues and escorting his friend, Bastone, back to Dover. Brennan sipped her venti Starbucks—though it had nothing on the _kopi luwak_ that they'd enjoyed that morning, it was more than serviceable for the purpose of giving her a jolt that she needed to get her through the chunky traffic along I-95 between Baltimore and D.C.—and would periodically look over at her partner as he sat in the passenger seat, his head lolled to the side, his mouth slightly open as he dozed, his closed eyes twitching, and his Adam's apple bobbing up and down occasionally as he weathered a dream cycle of some sort. He finally woke up as they emerged from the Fort McHenry Tunnel , as the jerky gas/brake/gas/brake rhythm of the I-895/Baltimore-Washington Parkway interchange became more than Brennan could manage without cursing aloud.

After stopping by her apartment to unload the boxes of his clothes they had retrieved the day before from his storage unit, they showered, changed, and made their way over to the Founding Fathers. Hearing that her friends had returned from Afghanistan, Angela had flown in the night before on the earliest Air France flight she could manage, leaving Hodgins behind to pack things up at their apartment in Paris. The pair had barely exited the cab when Angela came running up the sidewalk and threw her arms around Brennan.

"Sweetie!" she gushed, hugging her tightly.

"Hey, Angela," Brennan said, smiling against her friend's cheek.

As they broke apart, Angela took a step back and looked at Booth, who stood there with a sheepish grin on his face, rubbing his right hand over the fuzz on the back of his head. "Lookin' good there, soldier," she said to him, admiring the way his faded black henley clung to his chest and his black leather jacket hugged his round, well-built shoulders. "Welcome home," she said as she hugged him, rubbing the palm of her hand over his back—his ropy, muscular back, she noted. "I'm so glad you're finally back."

"Thanks, Ange," he said gratefully, pulling his phone out of his jeans, glancing at it briefly before pocketing it again. "Let's go inside, alright? Cam just texted me that she and Wendell already got a table for us."

"I can't believe you two are home," Angela said, smiling as she glanced over her shoulder to see Booth snake his arm around Brennan's waist as they walked into the bar. Cam and Wendell waved from a booth in the corner of the bar area.

Cam stood up and hugged Angela quickly as Booth and Brennan followed right behind her. Wendell stood and shook Booth's hand, then pulled him into a back-clapping guy hug, murmuring something to him that was inaudible to the others. Booth nodded with a faint smile, then stepped over to Cam.

"Camille," he said with an easy grin as he embraced her.

"Seeley," she replied with a laugh. "Welcome home."

Everyone took their seats and a round of drinks was quickly ordered. Booth and Brennan, as usual, sat next to one another, but this time, Cam and Angela noted with knowing smiles that the two sat a little closer than they used to, their arms and shoulders seemingly always in contact with one another. Angela shot Brennan a look, her dark brown eyes glittering and her rosy cheeks round and high with an insuppressible smile. Brennan smiled back with a shrug that, while gentle, was enough to turn Booth's head towards the silent conversation happening between the two longtime friends. He patted the inside of her thigh under the table and leaned over, hesitating for a moment before kissing the space in front of her ear.

"Hey," he whispered as he pulled his lips away from her skin. "You okay?"

She smiled. "Yes, of course," she whispered back. "Are you?"

Squeezing her lower thigh with his big hand, he grinned. "Couldn't be better," he replied, turning back to their companions to see a huge, ivory-white smile on Cam's face.

"_Finally_," she said with a chuckle as she twirled the stem of her wine glass between her fingers.

"That's what I said," Wendell chimed in, leaning in with a laugh as he brought his bottle of beer to his lips.

Brennan narrowed her eyes. "Well," she said. "Actually, that's not exactly what you said, but—"

"Don't be so literal, Bones," Booth snickered, rolling his eyes as he took a long sip of Pabst Blue Ribbon. "Jeez…"

The five of them talked and drank, laughing and catching up on seven-odd months of lost time during which Angela and Hodgins had settled into the easy rhythm of married life, enjoying an extended honeymoon in Paris, and through which Cam had endured a difficult term as the federal coroner for the District of Columbia. For a while, they avoided talking about the obvious subject of what had happened _over there_ to Booth, and the specific events that had brought him and Brennan together. But as the conversation wandered along, Cam watched her old friend laugh and smile, his left hand resting on the tabletop, and his right hand hidden in his lap—or Brennan's, as it were—below.

She looked down at her glass of wine with a creased brow and then up at her old friend. They had spoken for a little while by phone earlier that evening, after Booth and Brennan had returned to Washington from Philly, and she knew, though he tried to keep it hidden beneath his usual grinning mask, that he had a lot on his mind.

"I'm sorry," she began, her voice low and measured as she spoke. "But I have to ask…" Booth looked up, the smile fleeing his face as he remembered the sight of his own visage on the front page of the _New York Times _that morning. "Why did it take the Army six weeks to decide that those two helicopters went down under fire?" She glanced around the bar, which was crowded, but not unusually so considering it was a Thursday night. The air buzzed with the sound of two dozen conversations, so no one paid much attention to the quintet in the corner except for their assigned waitress. "Sorry," she whispered. "But—"

Angela swiveled her head and glared at Cam, her brow deeply furrowed with disapproval.

Booth shook his head and raised his hand. "It's okay," he said. Angela's dark brown eyes narrowed as she listened in silence. Cam's eyebrows went up and she cocked her head expectantly. Wendell's eyes met Booth's, then fell away again, his gaze dropping to stare into his bottle of Sam Adams. Brennan turned to her partner, pursed her lips and nodded, placing her hand on his and stroking the tops of his knuckles as he relaxed his fist.

"I don't know, Camille—I can guess, but I don't know for certain." He took another large swallow of Pabst Blue Ribbon and set his pint glass on the table, staring at it for several long moments as he felt his friends' gazes weigh on him. "I think it was political," he eventually said, his low tone heavy with deliberate vagueness.

"What do you mean?" Angela asked, her slender eyebrows knit low with concern. In the more than six years since she had meet Seeley Booth, she had never heard him wax so—well, conspiratorial—about anything. Her face was unable to conceal her shock at hearing him speak this way of the U.S. military, an institution he had always held in the highest esteem, even after the Devon Marshall case in the first year of his partnership with Brennan which, she noted with quiet irony, involved a cover-up—but in that case, at the platoon level.

Booth shrugged. "I don't know," he muttered. "At a certain level in the military, stuff gets political, even though, in theory, it shouldn't be about anything other than war fighting, right? Colonels, generals—those types—you don't get to that level without being keyed into the ebb and flow of politics."

Cam drained the last sip of her Pinot Grigio and took a breath. "So what are you saying, Booth? Are you suggesting that CENTCOM changed the story because—?"

He looked up and flagged down the waitress, ordering another round of drinks. He watched the waitress, a young, slender redhead, walk away before turning to Brennan and then to Cam.

"I don't know, Camille," he said. "I have no idea. And I have no idea where it ends. Third SFG, CENTCOM, SOCOM, maybe all the way up to SECDEF."

Wendell exchanged a look with Angela and arched a perplexed eyebrow. "What?"

Brennan smirked. "Third Special Forces Group," she said in a low voice. "U.S. Central Command, Special Operations Command and—" She stroked the top of Booth's hand under the table. Dropping her voice to a whisper, she added, "The Secretary of Defense."

"Look," Booth said, his jaw hardening suddenly. "I don't know why the cause of the incident was originally reported the way it was," he confessed. "Bones pointed out that the helos crashed a couple of weeks before a midterm election. Maybe that's got something to do with it. I dunno. Maybe not."

Leaning close to him, her lips brushing against the shoulder of his cotton Henley shirt, she frowned. "Booth," she whispered.

Booth turned and brushed his cheek lightly against her hair and nodded. "All I know," he said, bringing his eyes back to Cam and Angela. "All I knew then, and all I know now, is that the original explanation was wrong. Totally wrong." He brought his hand up to his hair and rubbed it back and forth over the top of his head. "Look, if I get to thinking all Hodgins-like about why this thing went the way it did, it'll just piss me off. The truth is out, and the last of my buddies gets put in the ground tomorrow."

Angela winced at his remark. He sighed and swallowed, his frown fading somewhat as the waitress delivered their third round of drinks.

As the young woman walked away again, Booth took another sip of his beer, brushing the foamy head off his lip and shrugged. "I just want to move on," he said, his voice thick as he spoke. "You know? I wanna get my arm fixed, get my discharge, get my badge back, and move forward with my life. That's all." He punctuated his statement by tapping his index finger against the table. "That's what I want."

Brennan rubbed her hand over his bicep and gently patted his forearm. He smiled faintly and rolled his left arm over, clasping her hand in his. "You are, Booth," she said. "You _are _moving forward." She thought for a moment, then added, "You already have."

* * *

><p>Booth and Brennan drove back up to Dover, Delaware the following morning. Once again clad in his crisply-pressed Service Dress blues, Booth reprised his role as Bastone's escort, accompanying his casket as it was flown via private charter from Dover to New York's LaGuardia airport, but this time, because the charter airline used an aircraft with two jumpseats in the cargo compartment, Brennan was able to join him on his solemn journey. They spent the hour-long flight in silence: his gaze falling on the flag-draped casket, raising his eyes only a couple of times during the course of the flight to meet hers before returning his attention to his fallen friend, while her eyes spent the majority of the flight studying her partner—the way his uniform hung from his shoulders and clung to his chest, the way his hands gripped his thighs, the way his features seemed tense and drawn, and the way his soft brown eyes glistened as he stared at the coffin.<p>

When the plane landed at LaGuardia, a U.S. Army honor guard was waiting on the tarmac to receive Bastone's remains. After the plane's pilots shut off the engines, a K-loader—a truck with a platform on top that can be raised and lowered like a scissors lift—pulled up to the aircraft's cargo door. Booth and Brennan stood up as two members of the honor guard entered the cargo hold and directed them to deplane. They watched from the tarmac, a chilling breeze nipping at them as the two soldiers slid the casket—using the small rollers mounted on the plane's cargo deck for that purpose—onto the lift. Brennan watched, a bit awkwardly and feeling somewhat out of place, as Booth saluted the casket as it was lowered to the ground. His eyes followed his friend's body as it was placed on the funeral home's cart and wheeled to the waiting hearse, surrounded on both sides by the six men of the honor guard. Brennan felt her gut clench as she knew the silent pain flickering behind her partners brown eyes.

It was then she turned her head and saw Darleen Bastone, dressed in a simple A-line high-collared black dress with cap sleeves, her arms and shoulders covered by a black wool shawl with a hand-crocheted lace trim and simple black ballet flats. She wore little makeup to hide her red-rimmed eyes and pale skin as she clutched her snugly-swaddled infant daughter close to her chest with one arm as her young son gripped her other hand tightly, standing a few feet away from the hearse. Mrs. Bastone said something to her son, and the little boy let go of her hand. He walked towards his father's casket, taking a couple of steps before his mother caught up to him. Brennan felt her jaw tighten as she saw the little boy in his dark blue suit bring his hand up and touch the edge of the flag covering his father's casket and give it a slight tug that had no effect on the flag's grip on his father's coffin. Her eyes met Mrs. Bastone's at the same moment she saw her right hand come up, her fingers closing around the circle of white gold that hung from a silver chain around her neck.

_Though she always dealt with people whose bodies had given way to the biological inevitability of death, Brennan never ceased to be surprised by the idiosyncratic ways that fires and explosions damaged the human body. This particular set of remains were in some ways among the most damaged of all—the way that an entire half of the chest had been blown apart, the head, neck, shoulders and pelvis of the individual torn away from the rest of the body—and yet part of the lower left arm and hand had been left relatively intact, the flesh dotted with shrapnel but otherwise recognizable despite the significant charring. Something caught Brennan's eye as she surveyed the charred forearm and partial hand—something bright and metallic. It took only a moment and a quick peeling away of a flap of melted plastic to reveal a white gold wedding band. Although she wasn't sure why, she found herself glancing over to the steel table where her partner had spent so many long days, reading through his comrades' files and writing letters to their families._

During the ride to Brooklyn, Brennan felt a swirl of emotions and a tugging desire to wrap her arms around her grieving partner, to embrace him as if doing so would enable him to transfer to her a portion of his wearisome burdens. As they rode in the back of the chauffeured black Town Car that took them from LaGuardia, down the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway to Flatbush Avenue, past Prospect Park and to the Church of St. John the Divine, she stared out the window at the Manhattan skyline that loomed large over the East River, frowning a little as the pleasant mantle of blue skies quickly gave way to somber gray clouds. As the driver wound his way through Queens into Brooklyn, Brennan looked over at Booth, whose eye twitched and narrowed briefly in response to her glance, and put her hand on top of his thigh, gently stroking the crisply pressed wool fabric of his blue dress trousers with her thumb. He turned his head to look at her hand, but didn't turn his eyes to meet hers. She saw him swallow and close his eyes, the tension in his jaw softening somewhat as he placed his left hand over hers.

Again the two of them sat in awkward silence, the only sound the noise of the Town Car's tires rumbling on the damp pavement as the clouds above closed ranks and a light rain began to fall.

The rain continued over the course of the morning as they attended Bastone's funeral service. Brennan found her mind wandering as the funeral hymns gave way to the Office of the Dead, and then to the Requiem Mass itself. She watched Booth's lips move silently as the priest proceeded through the individual elements of the rite, her mind going back to the etymology of the word 'requiem.' It derived from the Latin word 'to rest'—and although Lou Bastone was now at peace, Brennan couldn't help but find it ironic that everyone involved in the rite were many things, but restful wasn't really one of them. As Bastone's friends and family members took turns getting up and down to read various Bible excerpts, those gathered sang responsal psalms and hymns that Darleen had picked out, when the priest go to the homily, Brennan began to lose interest. She felt guilty about it, seeing it as a sign of disrespect, but she couldn't help it as her mind wandered.

Trying harder to focus on the priest's meant-to-comfort words about duty, honor, courage, persistence, and sacrifice, her stubborn mind rebelled and kept flickering to another place, to another church where she had watched her partner pray—the large, brightly-lit parish in Washington where he had given thanks after she and Hodgins survived being buried alive by the Gravedigger. In her mind's eye, she saw the interior of that church filled with people, many of them familiar faces she'd seen a hundred times at the Hoover, and Booth's boss's boss, Deputy Director Sam Cullen, sat next to her as she stared at a flag-draped, dark cherry casket at the front of the church. _If something happened to him, and I wasn't there, would they tell me? _she wondered. _Who would tell me? How would I find out? _She shook away the thought—the image of a dark-suited FBI official standing on the doorstep of her apartment—and the dark sensations that swirled through her as she squeezed her eyes shut, refusing to permit herself to think of losing Booth. _Not after all that's happened, _she told herself. _Not after everything we've been through. Not after he survived. Not after all of this. No...just no. _She shook her head a couple of times, firmly enough to draw Booth's attention, and as he reached his hand over to touch hers, she grasped it tightly, taking comfort in the warmth of his skin as he squeezed her fingers between his. He turned to her, his firmly-pressed lips forming a reassuring smile as his eyes, gleaming with unshed tears, met hers.

"I love you," he mouthed silently.

She nodded, wiping a tear from her eye as she nibbled the inside of her lip. _Do what must be done. Be strong for him, _she told herself. _He needs that…he needs that from you right now._

After the processional left the church and made its way finally to the Cemetery of the Holy Cross, First Sergeant Bastone's graveside service proceeded much like every other military funeral either Booth or Brennan had attended. The priest from Bastone's parish led the religious element of the service and a six-man honor guard in dress blues served as pallbearers for the flag-draped casket. Booth and Brennan stood together during the service, their hands meeting and fingers interlacing for a few brief seconds before he pulled away again, straightening his posture as he stared straight ahead. Even in the brief seconds their hands touched, Brennan swore she could feel his pulse against her thumb.

"Grant this mercy, O Lord," the priest said. "We beseech Thee, to Thy servant departed, that he may not receive in punishment the requital of his deeds who in desire did keep Thy will, and as the true faith here united him to the company of the faithful, so may Thy mercy unite him above to the choirs of angels. Through Jesus Christ, our Lord. Amen."

Brennan saw Booth's neck and jaw tighten further as the priest stepped back and the honor guard prepared for their rifle salute. The clacking sound of the rifles being raised sent her memory tumbling back to the morning she attended Booth's faked funeral years earlier. She remembered the lightheaded, gut-sinking, bowel-clenching feeling that washed over her listening to Caroline Julian eulogize her partner. The sensations came back to her in a vivid rush as she remembered standing at the gaping graveside at Arlington, staring into the dark cherry wood of his casket, biting the inside of her lip as she felt her nostrils burn, tapping her foot to distract herself from the pain. But that morning in Brooklyn, standing near another freshly-dug grave, she closed her eyes and sucked in a deep breath as she shook her head, trying to banish the painful memory from her mind.

Booth flinched as the rifle team fired the first of their three volleys. Brennan moved closer to him and briefly brushed her hand against his, again resisting the impulse to pull him close. The second and third volleys sounded, each with a loud, earsplitting crack that caused Booth's brow to knit hard over his eyes at the sound. Brennan felt a wave of nausea pass through her as the honor guard removed the flag from Bastone's casket and began to fold it. She watched Booth, whose pursed lips and firmly set jaw showed the tension that accumulated as he fought to keep tears from falling from his watery eyes. Unsure whether she should breach protocol in this way—or even whether doing so would breach some military protocol somewhere—she reached over and squeezed his hand as if to say, _it's alright—you can let go. _She felt his fingers curl around hers, warm and strong, and she felt herself strangely comforted by his touch, though she was trying to comfort him._You can feel. It's okay to let yourself feel. It'l be alright. I give you my word. I promise._Brennan watched him for several long moments, his jaw grinding as he struggled to process and contain his grief while the soldiers of the honor guard methodically folded the flag into a tight, crisp triangle.

The officer in charge of the honor guard—a lieutenant colonel—walked with slow, measured steps over to Darleen Bastone, who was seated in front of the casket, flanked on one side by her six year-old son Michael, and on the other by her sister-in-law, who cradled young Celia in her arms.

"On behalf of the President of the United States, and the people of a grateful nation, may I present this flag as a token of appreciation for the honorable and faithful service your husband rendered to this nation."

Mrs. Bastone's eyes were rimmed with tears but she did not weep as she accepted the folded flag and clutched it to her chest. Part of Brennan admired the woman's stoicism, but another part of her—the part that had come to believe that Booth's own stoicism had perhaps masked decades of pain that seemed to have eroded some of the very stability and strength that such stoicism had been intended to protect—pitied Bastone's widow. Yet, she kept those observations to herself as the priest uttered his final petition on behalf of the fallen soldier.

"May his soul and the souls of all the faithful departed through the mercy of God rest in peace."

At the conclusion of the graveside service, Brennan and Booth hung back, their hands clasped as they watched the members of the small gathering milled around, paying their last respects to the deceased and expressing their sympathies to Mrs. Bastone and her family. After a few minutes, Brennan followed Booth as he walked toward his friend's casket. He paused in front of the now-bare casket, pressing his hands against the cool, rain-speckled wood as he lowered his head reverently.

"I love you, brother," he whispered, inhaling deeply as he felt Brennan's hand on his shoulder. He closed his eyes, his nostrils flaring as his mouth fell open, struggling momentarily to find the right words. "Go with God, my friend." Blinking away tears, he took another breath and a step back, then snapped to attention and saluted his fallen friend one last time.

They made their way to Darleen Bastone, who held her boy's hand as she stood next to her sister-in-law, who stood clutching little Celia protectively. Her red-rimmed eyes brightened a little at seeing Booth and Brennan, and she quietly introduced them to her sister-in-law, Rosemary, who gingerly shook their hands.

"Would you like to hold her?" Mrs. Bastone asked Booth, who raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Your namesake," she added with a smile, rolling her lips together as a private thought flickered behind her blue eyes.

Booth swallowed. "Can I?" he asked, his voice a little uncertain as Rosemary stepped forward and handed the baby to Booth, who adjusted the blanket a little around the child's shoulders to protect her from chafing against the rack of ribbons on his chest. Cradling the infant in the crook of his arm, he looked up at Brennan and smiled, then gazed again into his friend's daughter's warm blue eyes, brushing a soft curl of brown hair away from her little brow and tucking it beneath her little knit cap. Brennan felt her stomach flip and a warm feeling ooze through her chest as she watched him rock the tiny child back and forth in his arms.

"That's your Uncle Seeley," Mrs. Bastone said softly.

At hearing those words, Brennan's resolve at holding herself together crumbled, and a sigh fell from her lips as her eyes welled up with tears again.

"He knew your daddy—and helped bring your daddy home to us."

* * *

><p>It was past ten by the time they got back to Brennan's apartment that night. Booth stood behind her as she fumbled with her keys, his body exhausted, his feet feeling like lead as he stood there, his tie loosened and the top button of his starched white dress shirt unbuttoned as his uniform coat hung open. Brennan leaned into the heavy hardwood door as she turned the key in the deadbolt, and she felt as though she was falling through the doorway as she walked in even though she knew that such a thing was literally impossible, with Booth following right behind her, his hand splayed gently on the small of her back.<p>

She tossed her purse on the table in the foyer with a tired sigh and walked to the refrigerator, opened the door and stared blankly at the sparse contents. She had not actually made a proper visit to the supermarket since their return from Afghanistan a few days earlier. Muttering a curse under her breath, she closed the refrigerator and, retrieving a glass from the cabinet, poured herself a glass of filtered water from the tap. She turned and looked at Booth, who had shrugged out of his wool uniform coat and was draping it carefully over the back of one of her dining room chairs. He unknotted his tie, yanked it out from under his collar and was rolling it into a ball when he looked up and caught her gaze.

"Are you okay there, Bones?" he asked, his brown eyes a bit dull and his voice weary as he set his balled-up tie on the table and walked over to her.

"Yes," she replied, setting her glass down on the counter and dismissing his concern with a wave of her hand. "Just tired, that's all. It's just been a long—"

Booth cocked his head and reached for her arm. "Hey," he whispered. "What's wrong?" He pursed his lips into a firm line as he watched her take a deep breath and look away. He brought his hand up and lifted her chin gently with his finger. "What's wrong, Bones?"

Brennan shivered in response to his featherlike touch. "I…well…" She shook her head and leaned back against the counter. "It's—today just…I don't know, Booth…" Her voice trailed off.

His mouth fell open as he realized that, amid the haze he had been in all that day—from the moment they met Bastone's casket early that morning before it was loaded onto the plane at Dover until they pulled into Brennan's parking space a few minutes earlier—he had not realized how heavily the events of the day had weighed on her.

"I'm sorry, Bones," he whispered, pulling her against his chest and holding her in a close embrace, stroking her silky hair as he inhaled the faint scent of her shampoo. "I'm sorry." She wrapped her arms loosely around his waist and leaned her head on his shoulder, and he felt her shiver again. "What can I do?" he asked, releasing her from his embrace as he looked at her, pouting his lips at seeing her tear-rimmed eyes.

"I just…" She wiped the moisture from her eyes with the back of her hand and shook her head, a pinched sigh escaping from her lips as she walked away. Booth watched her walk into the master bedroom and disappear around the corner, blinking a couple of times in stunned silence before he moved to follow her.

"Bones," he murmured in protest as he walked into the bedroom, turning his head towards the master bath to look for her.

"Booth," she said from the opposite corner of the room where she stood gazing out of the window onto the rain-damp street below.

"Bones…"

"There was so much loss today," she said quietly, her voice raw and brittle as she looked out onto the street to see that the fingers of the night had closed their grasp over the D.C. area. "There was so much loss and grief and for some of those people, it's just the beginning." She stopped, still not looking at him as she tilted her head and then sighed. "I know…I knew there was going to be an exhausting component to the requisite rituals that everyone needed to endure today as he was laid to rest, and I knew that confronting the loss and grief and sadness was a part of that process…but, I don't think I realized until right this very moment how overwhelming and depressing and suffocating it can be." Shaking her head again, she said, "I know this makes me a horrible person, but I just wanted it to be over. I wanted it to be over and done with and finished so that we could move on with things, and then I saw that little boy…and that baby girl, Booth. Neither one of them are going to know their father."

She stopped and paused for a moment, her voice becoming thick with emotion as she let her bottled up feelings come tumbling out to him as they only had and only would ever do to one person. "I know…I know there'll be friends and family members that will tell them about him. I know that, in time, their mother might even remarry so that they'll have some type of father figure in their lives. And, there'll be the pictures and videos, emails and letters, their mother's memories, and a neatly folded American flag that they'll have access to when they're old enough to understand. But, they'll never have their father there to tuck them back in when they wake up from a bad dream in the middle of the night, they'll never have him to snap at them when they take extra money for treats in the school cafeteria without permission."

She took a long, deep breath.

"Michael will never be able to play another game of catch with his father or go to a spring training game with him or watch the Mets on television. Celia…she'll never have him there to scare off boys that aren't good enough or to tell her how lovely she looks on the night of her high school prom. She'll never be able to see the happiness on her father's face as she hears her name over a loud speaker as she crosses her stage and becomes a college graduate. And, maybe what's most sad of all is that little girl will always look at the band of metal on that silver chain dangling around her mother's neck and never really realize what it symbolizes. She'll never know, and she'll never understand what it meant for the period in her parents' lives from the moment in time it was placed by her mother on her father's finger until the day that I took it off his remains. And, the more I think about that the more I become incredibly sensitive at just how fragile the time we have with the ones we love is. I've always known that human life itself was fragile, but the time…the time we have? It can be over, just like that." She snapped her fingers crisply and then shook her head. "It's foolish to waste it. Foolish."

He was still watching her as she turned around and then quickly moved to close the distance between them in a few short steps, bringing her hands up to cup his jaw as she pulled his mouth to hers. She pressed her lips against his, sliding the tip of her tongue against the space between his lips as he opened his mouth to her kiss. She moaned into his mouth, their tongues gliding languidly past one another as they kissed deeply, each mouth grasping at the other with raw want.

After a few moments, they broke apart, their breaths falling in hard pants as they stared into one another's glistening eyes. "Bones, I—" Booth's mouth hung open, and he did not know what to say. He could feel the pain and the uncertainty rolling off of her in waves as he saw her pale eyes blink, a pair of tears falling onto her flushed cheeks as she turned to look away. "No," he whispered, placing his hands on her hips and pulling her close to him. "I'm sorry," he said.

"No," she whispered, echoing his words as she kissed him again, letting her hands roam over his chest and under his suspenders, her palms coming to rest briefly on his round pectorals before moving up and, hooking her thumbs over his suspenders, sliding them off his shoulders. "Don't be sorry. Don't apologize. Please…just don't," she told him. "We already wasted so much time, and I almost lost you," she muttered as she began to unbutton his shirt. "I don't want to do that ever again."

"Bones," he said quietly, almost in protest as his hands involuntarily squeezed her hips as he watched her slender fingers deftly work the buttons of his starched dress shirt. He wasn't certain if she meant the time they had spent apart or the bit about her having almost lost him. In the end, he let the thought go as he was certain it really didn't matter. "I wasn't—"

"No," she grumbled, her voice a bit louder and more insistent as she tugged his shirt out of his trousers. "I read the file, Booth," she said, her voice edged with a terse clip to it. "Lukas was a qualified sniper, too. _He _could have been the man on the ground, and _you_ could have been on that helicopter." Her words were uttered in low, almost liquid tone. "It could have been _you_."

Hearing her words and the anguish in them, Booth tilted his head, softening his grip on her hips as she peeled his shirt away from his shoulders. "I-I…I…look, it's just—"

"No," she said, shaking her head. "Don't…please just don't. I told you, Booth, I don't…I don't want to waste any more time. I don't want to feel any more loss, sadness, or waste. I just…it's…I…I need to feel you, Booth."

He looked at her for a moment, his nostrils flaring as he felt the tears burn his eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispered, shrugging his arms out of his shirt and letting it fall to the floor as he winced and realized he'd apologized again when she'd asked him not to do it. His hands curved around her waist and up her back as he gently unzipped her long-sleeved, knee-length black velvet dress. He stepped back as she pulled her arms out of the sleeves and let the dress fall into a crumple onto the floor, right next to Booth's shirt. "I don't want to—"

"Don't," she said, shaking her head as she bent over and pulled off her calf-length suede boots. "Don't talk…" She hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her leggings and pulled them off, stepping out of them as she bit back a sob. "No more talking. No more apologizing and no more talking, _please…_just…please―touch me," she said, standing up straight and surveying him with her eyes. "Just touch me."

Booth said nothing but nodded. He bent over and, his movements reduced to rough, impatient jerks, untied his spit-shined jump boots, stepping out of each of them with a soft grunt. He stood up again and unclasped the front of his trousers as he watched her remove her bra, unzipping his fly and shoving his trousers off his hips, letting them fall to his feet, toeing out of his socks before finally stepping out of his trousers. He pulled his tank-style T-shirt over his head and tossed it to the side as he saw her sit down on the edge of the bed. She reached down and pulled off her panties, then crawled backwards, crablike, towards the top of the bed, never once breaking eye contact with him. He watched her, transfixed, for several moments before following her onto the bed, pausing only to pull off his boxers before walking towards her on all fours.

"What can I do, Bones?" he whispered. "Tell me. Whatever you want, tell me, and I'll do it—"

She raised her chin as she propped a pillow behind her back and beckoned him to her. "Touch me," she murmured in a softly pliant voice. "Touch me, taste me, feel me…love me."

He crawled towards her, slowly and gingerly, until he hovered over her, his breath rising and falling hard as he studied her face. Her pale eyes glimmered with moisture but her cheeks were rosy, flush with emotion and desire. Nodding, he bent his head down and kissed her, smiling against her lips as her mouth clutched at his, moaning at the taste and feel of her as her tongue glanced off of his. Allowing himself—and her—only a few more moments to savor the kiss, he pulled away and began dropping tiny, gentle kisses along her delicate jaw and slender neck, humming in satisfaction as she arched her back in response to his touch.

"Mmmm—_ohhh_," she moaned as she felt his lips trace a path from the notch at the base of her neck, over her sternum and between her breasts, leaving her skin hot and flushed in his wake. "Booth, I—"

"_Shhhh_," he whispered, supporting himself with his left arm as he drew a line with his right index finger along the swell of her breast, across her nipple—which caused her to suck in a breath between her teeth—and across her belly to her navel. "Shhhh…"

"Don't," she insisted with a firm, stubborn shake of her head. "Please―I need to feel you," she said. "Now…oh, God―please…now."

"I-I…okay," he stammered, brushing his knuckles against the top fringe of her curls as he pulled his hand away from her navel. He pressed his right hand into the mattress, hesitating briefly as he waited to see if the tingling would begin, but feeling nothing out of the ordinary, he narrowed his eyes and nodded to himself. "I love you, Bones," he whispered as he reached between his legs and, leaning into her, stroked his swollen tip against her, sucking in a breath at feeling how wet she was.

"Now," she said. "I…I want to feel you…I need it. I need you. I need to feel you. Please…oh, God, please―"

"You are, baby," he breathed in a soft breath to her. "You are…_we are_," he groaned. Booth rolled his hips back and pressed into her slowly. "_Ohhhh_," he moaned as he felt her tight, slippery warmth envelop him. He clenched his eyes shut as he pushed as deeply into her as he could, leaning onto his hands as he drew back and pressed into her again, suddenly finding himself without breath as he was overtaken by the incredible feel of her beneath him. He opened his eyes and looked down, unable to keep a smile from breaking across his face as he saw her chest pinken as he moved inside of her.

Brennan exhaled deeply as she brought her hands up to his narrow hips, enjoying the way his pelvis felt beneath her palms as he thrust into her, the sensation of him filling her seemingly more intense at that moment than she had ever remembered it feeling before. She leaned her head back, taking a deep breath as he pressed into her again, his pubis grinding against her most sensitive flesh as she felt her arousal coil tightly behind her navel. As he withdrew, her hands slid around the small of his back and down to cup his tight, muscular ass, pulling him back into her with a long, low sigh.

"Ohhh, Booth," she whispered as he began to drive into her more insistently as her fingers clawed at his ass, kneading his flesh with her fingertips as he punctuated each of his strokes with a quiet grunt. With each stroke, Brennan felt herself falling deeper into a flat spin, her body seemingly taking on a quality of weightlessness as it seemed everything solid around her had dissolved into the ether of her ecstasy. She closed her eyes and felt her chest heaving with heavy breaths, her voice consisting of a peaking series of moans and sighs as Booth continued to stroke into her, each thrust deeper and harder than the one before.

"Ohhhhhh," he groaned, pausing for a brief moment and taking a deep breath before tucking his chin against his chest and plowing into her again, leaning onto his hands as he watched her head roll from one side to the other, her cheeks flushing a deep pink as her moans grew louder. He felt a wonderful warmth spread through his chest as he realized he was, in that moment, exactly where he had wanted to be for six long years—between her thighs, making beautiful love to her, watching her peak beneath him—and the thought of it filled him with a transcendent joy he had never believed possible.

"I'm here, Bones," he whispered as he rolled his hips back and pressed into her, again and again. "I'm here…I'm here..."

"_Ohhhh…ohhhhhh…ohhhhhhhh_…"

Her chin lifted as her head leaned back on the pillow, the long curve of her neck exposed as she arched her back beneath him one last time before she shattered, tightening around him before fluttering in release.

"_Booo-tthhhh."_

"I love you, Bones," he whispered, pressing into her firmly and deeply, one last time, holding himself there as he, too, broke, emptying himself into her with a long moan. She pulled him toward her as the last pulses of his release faded and the ropy muscles of his back and shoulders relaxed. "I love you."

"I love you, too, …" she moaned, still a bit out of sorts after her orgasm. She sank into the softness of her mattress as she blinked up at him, her pale eyes glazed over slightly. "Love you," she murmured. "So much."

He looked down at her and smiled, sighing as he rolled off of her and took his place on her right side, bending his head down as his back hit the mattress and kissing her shoulder. He lay on his side, his head propped on his hand, stroking his fingers over her belly, smiling at the feel of her skin, sweat-damp after their love. Booth kissed her shoulder again and looked out the window, the light of the street lamp below shimmering against the misty drizzle, giving the scene outside a vaguely ethereal glow.

Brennan turned her head to the side and watched his eyes as he stared out the window. They lay there that way—him stroking her smooth, gently curved belly absentmindedly as he gazed into the rainy night, while she observed him, her eyes tracing the angular features of his face, the sinews of his neck, his prominent Adam's apple, and the round musculature of his shoulders—for several minutes in silence.

"Booth?" she asked him finally. His head rolled as she called his name. When she looked at him, she questioned, "What are you thinking about?"

He smiled and shrugged, turning to look at her. "Nothing very romantic, I'm afraid," he chuckled. "I know it's stupid, but I was just thinking about all the things I have to do—you know, talk to the person who's subletting my place month-to-month, so I can figure out when I can get my stuff out of the storage unit, and move all my crap back into my apartment, and—"

She brought her hand up and stilled his rambling by placing her index finger over his lips. "No," she said.

Booth quirked an eyebrow. "What?" he asked. "You know I have to do all that, and there's no telling how long after my surgery it'll be before—"

"No," she said with a firm shake of her head. "You don't need to do that," she clarified as she held his gaze. She considered her words and then amended, "I mean, the storage unit part, maybe, but not the rest of it."

His eyebrows knit low over his eyes and he cocked his head. "Why not?"

"Because," she said.

"Bones?" he replied. "You trying to tell me something here?"

Brennan smirked. "Nothing very romantic, I'm afraid," she replied with a scarcely-suppressed snicker. "But, I think you should move in with me, Booth."

"What?" he croaked, obviously taken aback with surprise at her suggestion. "Wait―are you serious?"

She tilted her head and smiled. "You spent the last roughly six weeks living with me," she said. "Under far less than optimal circumstances. So, don't you think that we can manage living together here? My place is big enough to hold all your things, though we may need to discuss how to handle some of your vintage appliances and furnishings—that vintage refrigerator, for example, doesn't really mesh with my stainless steel motif in the kitchen—but, with a bit of compromise, I think we can manage. I have a spare bedroom for the weekends when you have Parker, and—"

Booth grinned and reached for her jaw, gently turning her head and kissing her on the lips, their tongues meeting just briefly before he pulled away. "Okay," he said. "You had me at 'move in,' Bones."

"So you will?" she asked, a vague lilt of lingering uncertainty in her voice.

"Hell, yes I will," he replied with a laugh. "I'd even give up my epic vintage fridge for you, Bones." They laughed together as the skies outside opened up, the downpour splattering her bedroom window with loud raindrops.

"Hmmm," Brennan quipped as she reached down and pulled the covers over them. "I guess you must really love me then, huh? Giving up the fridge is quite the commitment, Booth. Are you sure you're ready to take that type of step in our relationship?"

"You know it, baby," he replied with a wink, reaching for her hip and pulling her on top of him as he wrapped his arms around her. "You know it."

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><p><strong>AN****: **_Wow. So there you go. Did you cry? A bit of an emotional rollercoaster, that one. The chapter, I mean—though I guess the same can be said of K2B as a whole. Well, I hope you're feeling good about where this journey's taken them—and you—over the last 33 chapters. I have just one more chapter to offer you, an epilogue, and then we will have reached the end of this tale._

_Seriously, folks, writing "Killing Two Birds"—and seeing how people have responded to it—has been truly one of the most amazing things I've ever experienced as a writer. I cannot tell you how much it means to me to get reviews, Twitter messages or FFnet PMs from readers saying how much this story has moved them. I appreciate them all—and all of you who have read this._

_So, please. After all that, don't read and run. Tell me what you think about what happened in this chapter. Leave me a review._

_The epilogue will post soon. And I promise it will leave you with a smile on your face and a warm feeling in your belly. It might even make you squee. _

_So, throw this monkey a bone. Leave a review, and I'll get that epilogue up in short order._

:-)

**** Editorial note:** _Special monkey shout-out to Lesera128, Dharmasera Inc.'s in-house Executive Vice President of Brennanizing, for help with that utterly _**GUH **_Brennan soliloquy up there _::shivers::


	34. Epilogue

**Killing Two Birds**

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><p><strong>By:<strong> dharmamonkey  
><strong>Rated:<strong> M  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> _Hart Hanson owns _Bones_. But people like me who play in his sandbox give you all those delicious little moments that Hart and friends leave out. In this case, AU do-overs for that gap between Seasons 5 and 6 that wrought so much havoc for our heroes. That's why you read fanfic._

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><p><strong>Ch 34: Epilogue<strong>

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><p><em>"One year from today, we meet at the Reflecting Pool on the Mall."<em>

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><p>Booth was already there, sitting on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, admiring the way the rosy spring sunset illuminated the Washington Monument as it cast its reflection across the length of the Reflecting Pool. He sat casually, his suit jacket folded neatly on the step next to him, his tie loosened, and his arms folded across his knees as he watched the joggers pass by the shade trees along the north and south sides of the pool. His FBI service pistol was holstered snugly on his right hip, locked and loaded, safety on, and his badge hung from his belt. It had been a long day of staff meetings punctuated by a tough and more or less fruitless interrogation of an erstwhile methamphetamine trafficker. But, sitting there on the steps as he watched the warm light of the sunset, he felt the tension in his back and shoulders melt away.<p>

It had been four and a half months since Booth stepped off the C-17 that had carried him and his comrade, Bastone, home from Afghanistan, four months since the surgery that relieved the pressure on his ulnar nerve and gave him feeling back in his hand, three months since his early honorable discharge from the Army, and two months since his return to work as a Supervisory Special Agent in the Major Crimes Division of the FBI's D.C. Field Office. While he was still working out all the administrative kinks since his return, in many ways his life had returned to normal. He was back in the field with Brennan by his side, solving cases and locking away killers the way they had for five years before it all unraveled after Heather Taffet's trial. The heartache he used to feel thinking about that unhappy, awkward time had faded into a memory of its own.

In a word, Booth was happy.

That happiness increased as he saw Brennan approach from the north side, pausing at the base of the steps to look at him. His jaw was strong yet relaxed, which brought a smile to her lips. He raised his chin and then turned to his left, and a broad smile broke across his face as their eyes met. Brennan jogged up the remaining steps as he stood up to greet her.

"Hey," he whispered as he took her into his arms and gently kissed her forehead. "How was your afternoon?" he asked.

Brennan shrugged. "Okay," she said, kissing him softly on the lips and gently patting his bottom as he walked back to where he'd been sitting. "I largely spent it waiting for Hodgins to finish up the some tests he was running using the mass spec to see if he could so identify any of the particulates we found on the remains from Rock Creek Park." She turned to him and smiled. "But, I ultimately decided not to wait around for the results, which is why I sent you the text message suggesting we meet here."

Booth quirked an eyebrow.

"I'm glad you wanted to meet here," he said with a grin. "A little surprised," he admitted with a quiet chuckle, "but glad." He sat down on the step, his legs spread wide enough to allow her to sit between them. She sat down on the hard stone step, and he wrapped his arms around her, his left hand snaking around to clasp her hand in his. He smiled into her silky hair as the rosy twilight reflected off the matching gold bands they wore. "You've become quite sentimental there, Bones—I think I must be rubbing off on you…"

"What?" she said with a soft laugh. "We said a year ago we'd meet here, didn't we? Isn't that what you said? _One year from today, we meet at the Reflecting Pool on the Mall._" She turned her head to the side as he kissed the shell of her ear. "So, really, I'm just ensuring that you stay true to your word, Booth."

"You trying to say that you're making an honest man out of me?" Booth snickered.

"No," she laughed. "Not necessarily, because you're one of the honest and most truthful men I've ever known so such an effort would really be futile on my part."

"Good," Booth said with a twinkle in his eye. "Because I was pretty sure we already took care of that, you know, a couple of months ago."

"Well," Brennan said, then fell silent for few seconds before she whispered, "Booth?"

"Hmmm?" came his soft response.

"Things didn't turn out the way we thought they would, did they?" she asked.

"No," he told her, nuzzling his nose in her hair. "But that's not necessarily a bad thing. As a matter of fact, all in all, I think it's a pretty good thing." His lips curved into a smile as they brushed against her temple. "It's a good thing that things turned out like this, don't you think, Bones? I mean, I know a lot of crazy shit had to happen to get us from point A to point B, but we're good now. Life is good for us. I'm happy. You're happy. We're happy. So it was worth it, wasn't it?"

"Yes," she agreed. "I can't fault your logic in that." She stopped and then added, "So, wait—does this mean if you're the logical one now that I have to assume the role of being the sentimental one? Because I'm not certain how I feel about that. That's really your traditional role, and—"

"I'm not the sentimental one," Booth countered. Brennan shot him a look and then he cowed a bit as he conceded with a grin, "Okay, so maybe I'm a little sentimental…at times."

"It's okay," Brennan told him as she snuggled into him. "I like it when you're sentimental. It…it's reassuring somehow that after everything that's happened, you can still be like that and make me feel the way you do. I always know I can rely on you, you know, to be that way." She stopped and tilted her head to look at him, nibbling her lip as a thought occurred to her. "Oh, wait, does that mean I'm being the sentimental one again since I just said what I said?"

He squeezed her hand. "That's not sentimentality, Bones," he corrected her with a grin she couldn't see. "That's faith."

"Faith," she mouthed under her breath, leaning back against his chest and smiling at the way his five o'clock shadow rubbed against her neck. "Faith?" She then made a face as she shook her head and said, "I think I liked it better when I was being sentimental."

"You're incorrigible," Booth said, rolling his eyes at her, tightening his arms around her chest as he shook his head and chuckled. They sat there like that for several minutes, watching in comfortable silence as the orange-rose light of the setting sun dissipated into the darkening twilight sky. Booth rested his chin on her shoulder and brushed his lips against the soft skin behind her ear, chuckling as she giggled at feeling his touch. She reached her left hand across to touch his right forearm, tracing her fingers over his warm olive skin and feeling the now-healed and slowly fading scars, bumpy veins and delicate hairs that covered his arm. She felt him smile against her neck as she touched him, and she gently squeezed his wrist as she nuzzled into the crook of his arm.

"Hey," he said for no particular reason.

"Hey," she answered back. For a couple of more minutes they sat there, watching the sky turn violet as the warm hues of the sun faded below the horizon as they held each other.

Booth turned his head away from her neck and said quietly, "Wendell called just before you got here. The squints are all meeting at the Founding Fathers at eight. His girl Ashley got a four-day pass and is coming up from Ft. Lee for the weekend, and Wendell wants to introduce her to the gang. I thought maybe we'd go over there, say hello, have a couple of drinks and—"

"Hmmmm," Brennan murmured. "Do we _have _to? I sort of was looking forward to just going home and relaxing tonight since it's been such a long day."

"Come on, Bones—it's important to him," Booth reminded her. Brennan frowned. "We don't have to stay long, but we need to at least make an appearance."

Brennan sighed again.

His forehead creased at her silence. "What's wrong?" he asked. "It's just a couple of drinks, Bones. Like I said, we don't have to stay long. We're just gonna go, have a round or two of beers, say hi to Ashley, give Wendell the thumbs up, and then we can take off. Come on. The kid's really excited about Ashley getting that posting at the Pentagon, ya know, and…" His words trailed off as he felt her shudder in his arms with suppressed laughter. "What?"

"Booth," she said. "I love you, but I'm afraid if you don't stop rambling, I may have to find some blunt object here and throw it at you or, considering the close proximity between us, whack you over the head with it."

"_Ruh-roh_," he said, amusing himself with his Scooby-Doo imitation—though he knew his partner didn't get the joke—as he arched his eyebrows. He noticed the subtle shift in her tone of voice and pursed his lips as he turned and studied her expression for a moment. "Violent tendencies coming out there, Bones? Okay, what happened now that's got your proverbial panties in a bunch? Did someone forget to reorder your favorite brand of squint gloves? Or, wait…lemme guess. You finally got a response on that reader's report from the journal on your article, didn't you? Who said what now, and when do I get to see you eviscerate them in your next letter?"

"This doesn't have anything to do with my journal article," Brennan replied. "Although you are correct in the fact that I will be writing a strongly-worded letter to the editor if she asks for another redraft and resubmit before they agree to publish it."

Booth leaned forward and kissed her cheek. "Ya know," he said, his voice dropping half octave as he spoke breathily into her ear. "I think it's particularly hot when you academically bitch-slap someone on paper." He wagged his eyebrows suggestively. "Very hot."

"Booth," she groaned, struggling to suppress her own grin. "Be serious for a minute, would you? I…I-I…don't look at me like that."

"Like what?" he blinked innocently.

"Like _that_," she told him. "I'm trying to be serious because…well, you're not making this any easier between wanting to flirt with me and choosing this particular moment to be so very dense."

"I always want to flirt with you," he grinned at her. "And just because you're my wife now doesn't mean I have to stop flirting with you." His mind caught up with his mouth and that moment, and his brow crinkled in puzzlement. "Huh? Wait a sec—what am I not making any easier?"

"I-I…this," she vaguely gestured at the two of them. "I…"

He cocked his head. "Wait, what?" he asked. "What are you talking about? I'm confused. What am I not making any easier?"

Brennan rolled her eyes and shrugged at an unspoken thought. "Booth?"

"Yeah, what?" he asked, his voice taking on a sudden edge of exasperation.

"There's something I need to tell you," she said firmly, leaning forward a little so she could turn her head and see his eyes. "Now, quit interrupting me so I can finally decide on which specific verbiage to use out of about the eight different choices I've been considering."

He raised an eyebrow, the thin scar that bisected it now thin and noticeable only to his partner. "What?" he said, shifting his hips a bit on the stone step so Brennan could face him. She pursed her lips into a thin line and he saw a flicker behind her pale eyes, then her mouth softened into a smile.

Knowing that if she didn't go with the least wordy version, she might not get a word in edgewise, Brennan took a breath and then said, "I'm pregnant."

Booth's mouth fell open with a short laugh. "Are you serious?" he asked. "I mean, are you sure?"

"Yes," she replied with a smile, reaching into her jacket pocket to pull out a folded piece of paper. "I went into Dr. Post's office this morning, and they drew blood to run a pregnancy serum test to confirm my levels of human chorionic gonadotropin hormones, and here are the results, and—" She held it up demonstratively, but it fell to the ground as Booth reached up and cupped her face between his hands and kissed her.

"Oh my God," he said as he pulled his lips away from hers. "Bones…"

"What?" she said.

"A baby?" he blinked at her. "Really?"

"Yes," she nodded. "I believe that's what I was just trying to tell you. My hCg levels―""

Slowly, Booth raised a finger to her lips and shushed her. Brennan's brow furrowed as he refused to move his finger before she nodded her tacit agreement to let him speak. "Wow," he whispered, his brown eyes bright as a wide grin broke across his face. "This is fantastic, Bones."

"I'd hoped you'd be pleased," she said with a smile, rubbing her hand over his knee. Booth laughed and, cupping her jaw between his palms and bringing her face towards his as he kissed her again, her tongue sliding between his lips as each of them murmured at the taste and feel of the other.

"Yeah," he whispered, raising his chin and grinning as her lips grasped at his the moment he pulled away. "I'm pleased, definitely friggin' pleased…so pleased. I mean, _a baby?_ Wow…it's…that's…I'm so stoked, Bones, I can't even tell you except to say that this is the absolute best friggin' news ever."

"That's almost a perfect response on your part, Booth," she smiled at him as she then glanced at the half-folded sheet of paper that had fallen on the step at Booth's feet.

"Don't you want to see my lab results?" she asked as she grabbed for the paper and extended them towards Booth.

"Not really," he said. "You know that none of that squinty stuff is gonna make one damn bit of sense to me unless you translate it for me. And all I need to know I already know, right?"

"Not even the projected date of when I'll commence with labor and birth of our child?" Brennan blinked at him, doing fairly well at keeping a straight face but for the small tugging at the edge of her lips.

Booth's eyes lit up as he realized what she'd said, and he made a grab for the paper.

"Hey, gimme that," he growled teasingly, snatching it from her fingers. Once he had it in his hand, he began to scan the paper for the desired information. "Hey…where?"

"Upper left hand corner," Brennan answered instantly. "Based on the date of my last menstrual period, I'm due―"

Booth shook his head as a goofy grin settled over his face. "Oh, hey…look at that. A Christmas baby," he said, his voice moist and throaty with emotion. He reached over and touched her face, caressing it with his open hand. "Oh, Bones."

She nodded, her entire face shining with the happiness she felt as she tried to soak in the moment—the way he smiled at her, his chocolate eyes glittering as they stared into hers, the way his fingertips felt on her cheeks, the darkening purple of dusk and the way the Washington Monument stood, a brightly-illuminated sentinel on the other end of the Reflecting Pool.

After a moment, the pair spotted a young woman running along the north side of the Reflecting Pool trying to keep up with two young children: an older boy who was maybe five or six and a younger girl who'd apparently just started to walk. The shrieks of happiness coming from the trio caught and kept both Booth and Brennan's attention.

Booth bit the inside of his lip as he thought about his friend Bastone.

"_It kills me I'm not gonna be home for Christmas," Booth said sullenly as he sat on his bunk, hunched over the latest letter from Parker. _

_He smiled as he reread Parker's description of his Halloween costume. He imagined how the boy must have been driving Rebecca nuts asking to wear it even though Halloween was still several weeks away. He looked up and saw the damp-eyed frown on his friend Bastone's face._

_Booth swallowed, feeling in that moment like the biggest jerk ever born. "I mean, I know it's nothin' on your situation, with not getting to see your new baby girl and all, but…"_

"_It sucks," Bastone said. "It sucks I missed my baby girl bein' born, and it sucks I'm gonna miss my boy's birthday, and it sucks I'm gonna miss Christmas with my family." He sighed and pulled a cinnamon-flavored toothpick out of his chest pocket and stuck it between his teeth, biting down on it hard as he spoke. "Sucks, sucks, sucks, man. Fuckin' sucks." _

"_I'm sorry," Booth said. "So much for mid-tour leave being mid-tour, huh?" he quipped glumly. _

"_Fuck," Bastone spat. "We'd been over barely four months before I got mine. Now it's a long stretch 'til we're done with this hellhole. Could've saved myself a whole lot of misery had I just taken that job as the oil-change guy at my cousin's garage back in Brooklyn when I was nineteen."_

"_It's kind of cool your boy was born at Christmas, though," Booth said, trying to change the subject a little to lift his friend's mood. "A Christmas baby and all."_

Blinking away the memory, Booth said, "Lou's boy, Mikey, he was born the day after Christmas. Lou, you know, he was always grumbling about Darleen going into labor on Christmas. Said he always felt kind of bad that his son didn't really have a day all to himself. You know, his own day."

Booth shook his head and sighed, then looked up at Brennan, who looked at him with a curious expression.

"Given the fact that I'm due on the 22nd," she said. "While it's possible that our child might have to share it's birthday with the winter solstice―which some cultures would consider an extreme sign of good fortune―it's unlikely that I'll actually give birth on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day. However, if I did for some reason, I know we could both make a concentrated effort to make certain the day still had some significant personal resonance for our child―"

Booth reached up and kissed her, cutting her off. "I know, Bones," he whispered. "I know. It's just that…this Christmas. It'll be the first Christmas that Darleen and the kids will be without him. I mean, he's been deployed on Christmas before, and last Christmas, well, that was just a few weeks after the funeral and everything, but—you know what I mean. With him being gone and all—that's going to be tough."

"Then, perhaps we can give them something to look forward to that would make the sadness a bit more bearable," Brennan said. She stopped and frowned as she said, "Given the timing, it would be extremely inconvenient to host house guests so near or so soon after my delivery, but maybe we could figure out a way―"

"Wait," Booth said, holding up his hand. "You want to invite them here? To D.C.?"

"Do you think they'd come?" Brennan asked. "Even if they can't stay with us, maybe…maybe we could―"

"You'd be about to pop and you'd want to do that?" Booth asked, clearly touched by her generosity. "For me?"

"As I said, it would be difficult logistically," Brennan nodded. "But I think it might bring you some comfort, and it would be nice to make certain that Darleen, Michael and Celia aren't all alone on Christmas."

Tightening his grip around her, Booth murmured, "So I guess if we do this, then I don't need to ask if we can call the kid Louie or Lulu or something, huh?"

Brennan made a face and said, "It's usually considered bad luck to begin discussing names before the viability of the pregnancy's confirmed at the end of the first trimester, Booth. But, if you feel strongly―"

"I'm teasing, Bones," Booth grinned. "Although, I do think Lou would get a kick out of me naming my kid after him. Besides, I thought you didn't believe in luck."

Brennan considered his point and then said, "Of course, if we did agree to use the name Louis or Louise for our child, it would establish a pattern that you have for naming your children after Army comrades. While I know how close you were to him, I'm not certain how I feel about that, because given the pattern, logically it would follow that you would have to go back into the Army again and have another close friend if we were to have a second child, unless you counted Hank―"

"Bones," Booth interjected, raising his hand to stop her. "Just hold on there, mmkay?"

"What?" she blinked, a quizzical look on her face.

"You're rambling, babe," he grinned. "And as much as I love you, how about we just focus on the one we've got in the oven right now, huh?"

"Okay," she said, her suddenly voice thick as she felt a surge of feeling wash over her. "Our child," she stopped as she considered the words. "That concept really is as close to perfection as I can think of…our child, our family, right? They're perfect."

"You betcha," Booth said with a broad, toothy smile, pulling her into a warm embrace and cupping his hand around the back of her head as she sighed into his shoulder. "And, you're right, Bones. It'll be perfect…our perfect family. I promise."

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><p><strong>THE END<strong>

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><p><strong>AN:**

_So there you are. Did you go "squee" when you read that? ::narrows eyes:: You did. Admit it. It's okay. I squeed writing it._

_Thanks to everyone who read this piece, and extra thanks to those who took the time to leave reviews, send me PMs or chat me up on Twitter about it. It means so much to know I moved you all with this tale of mine. I tried to do honor to the subject matter—the suffering of our soldiers, veterans and their families—while telling a tale that was interesting and, well, a little romantic, too._

_Extra, extra special thanks to a few people in particular:_

**Lesera128:** _My friend and erstwhile coauthor, who helped me keep my Brennan several notches better than I could write her on my own, and who generally kicks my ass to keep me writing at the level she knows I'm capable of. I've learned more from her in six-plus months of writing together than I have in the previous twenty years of creative writing. She is truly the Brennan to my Booth (not like that, people; think metaphorically). For that kind of friendship and collaboration, I'm grateful. I owe you the next round of Jamesons, babe._

****AvaniHeath:** **_Another reader and fellow writer who became a monkeysitter (huge task, for those who know how much time I fritter away on Twitter_—_hey, that rhymed!), beta-reader and friend. _We'll meet up one day, _and I owe her a couple of venti chai teas. Or maybe one of those Starbucks Lego sets. Maybe I'll buy her the venti's and keep the Legos for myself. In either case, thanks, kiddo._

**Jasper777:** _A reader who became a technical consultant, beta-reader, brainstormer and friend. She helped me make sure I kept the story arc consistent with the trajectory of PTSD symptoms, and helped with other important technical details (like what happens to bodies blown up with HE rounds). Huge thanks, lady. We'll meet up one day, and I owe you a venti (or two, or three). In the meantime, I'll just have to share my stash of Boothporn._

**Diko:** _Another reader and fellow writer who generously shared with me some of her research on military subjects, in particular military mortuary procedures. I could not have written the "Homecoming" chapter without her help. Her piece, Murder in Maluku, is absolutely great and worth a read. Some parts *cough* are worth reading more than once ;-) Thanks a lot, pal, for all of your help._

**CrayonClown:** _New mom, writer, faithful reader and reviewer who even coaxed (er, blackmailed?) her paramedic spouse, MuffinManD, into reading K2B. (A male reader! Yes, I have a few of those, apparently.) Her detailed reviews really helped me see early on, in vivid detail, the trajectory of a reader's response to a chapter, which helped me modulate the way I wrote these chapters. Sounds weird, I guess, but it was actually a huge help. And her reviews were often very amusing._

_To all of these, and to ALL of my readers, thanks._

**One more word on reviews: **_Friends, __I have spent most of my free time from January 3rd until March 22nd researching and writing this piece. If you've read this far (34 chapters, close to 180,000 words—which is roughly the equivalent of a 300 page novel) and you haven't reviewed, come on. Please. You got a free novel, folks. And all that tasty Booth. _

_So, please. __Leave a review. Tell me what you thought._

***salutes***


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